


We'll meet again

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Post WWII Britain, Antisemitism, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, rationing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: Figures from the past return to trouble Treville and Aramis. While struggling with the death of his brother during WWII—at the hands of Athos's estranged wife and fellow SOE agent, Anne—Athos also has contend with fallout from the war, while working with his friends to stop shadowy figures endangering the hard won peace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cait12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cait12/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for Cait12 for giving me inspiration, and who wanted a Treville/Milady story.
> 
> My thanks to [Thimblerig](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig) for support and assistance, and to my readers for encouragement.

The scent of jasmine came high and sweet even over his cigarette smoke, and even before Treville turned his head, he knew who had come to stand next to him.

“You’re looking well, John,” she said when he finally looked at her.

She was the same, just colder, more brilliant, like a diamond recut and set in platinum. He didn’t ask how she’d found him. To do so would insult both of them.

“What do you want, Anne?”

“After three years, that’s how you greet me?” She held up a cigarette in a dainty black holder. “Light me.”

Manners meant he had to, but the curl of her scarlet painted lips meant she saw it as a victory, not just courtesy. She inhaled and blew out a plume of smoke, but didn’t answer his question.

So he repeated it. She looked at him under eyelashes heavy with mascara, surrounding eyes of a green that only cats and emeralds could own. “I missed you.”

“Rot. What do you want? Where have you been?”

She took another drag on the cigarette. “Keeping myself. Actually, letting wealthy men keep me. Does that shock you?”

“I’m sure you expect it does. If you’re looking for a sugar daddy, you’ve come to the wrong bloke.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What is it you want?” He’d only come out for a last fag before walking back to his house from the pub. Staring at the Thames had a calming effect on him, and after a particularly brutal winter, being in the open was quite pleasant. “Well? Out with it.”

“I could come back to yours and tell you.”

The flare of heat in his groin was a perfect counterpoint to the spike of pain between his eyes. “Not likely. Talk, or walk.”

“You’ve been spending too much time talking to our American friends.”

He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing. “Goodnight.”

She caught his arm. “I do need to talk to you, and it needs to be somewhere private.” Her eyes revealed little more than they ever did, and he could never trust them, but she’d dropped the coquettishness she was now a tad too old to carry off, at least to his mind. “It’s important.”

“It better be. And no tricks. We’re done.”

“As you say.” She lifted her arm, and gritting his teeth, he accepted it.

It was only a ten-minute walk to his house. She looked it up and down as if appraising it for sale. “You didn’t feel the need to move after your father—”

“No. Hurry up.”

Agnes had left one fire banked in the living room for his return, so it was only a minute’s work to poke it back into life. Anne had placed herself on the sofa with her legs crossed at the knee, her skirt just short enough to make that scandalous. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

“No. What do you want to talk about? And keep it down, my housekeeper is asleep upstairs.”

“Housekeeper?” Her tone implied Treville had confessed to keeping a woman for some other purpose.

He didn’t rise to the bait. She sighed. “Very well. I’m the mistress of Herman Duplessis. I don’t need to tell you who he is.”

“No. And?”

“Herman likes to have some insurance in place when dealing with his rivals. A little dirt, a little gossip, the kind of photos that will get you into a divorce court. That sort of thing.”

“How charming. I’m not surprised you find him attractive.”

She looked up under her brows. “Did I say I did? It’s a business arrangement. It suits me very well. Or it did.” She held out another cigarette and Treville lit it with a coal from the fire. “He uses me to acquire some of that insurance. A seduction here, a little investigation by chatting to certain people there. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

Anne had been one of the best spies under Treville’s command during the war. Duplessis had chosen well. “Yes, I do. Is your conscience pricking you?”

“Yes.” Now that did surprise him. He was certain she didn’t have one to prick. Not about this sort of thing, at least. “Some of the people he’s been insuring against aren’t businessmen. Some of them are in the government, civil service, junior ministers, secretaries and so forth. And while I don’t mind Duplessis and his rivals cutting their own throats in a race to be the wealthiest men in Europe, I do mind if they’re up to something that threatens England.”

Treville stood up straight. Anne’s personal loyalties were labile, but her devotion to her adopted country bordered on the fanatic. “Names?”

“Write them down. You think I’m walking around with a list like that?”

He fetched pen and pencil and she dictated ten names, all of which he recognised, either well or vaguely. “And they’ve all been compromised by you?”

“More or less. There’s more though. Some of the people he’s had meetings with dealt with the Nazis, and some of those deal now with the Russians. Some of the connections are sinister, to my mind.”

“What do you think he’s up to?”

“I suspect he’s trying to set up arms deals primarily beneficial to himself, and which may not be beneficial to Britain. It’s just a feeling, John.  My gut instinct.”

Anne’s gut instinct had been infallible while she worked for the SOE. “Why haven’t you gone to MI6?”

She smiled one of her cold smiles, the kind that never rose anywhere near those mesmerising eyes. “I burnt my bridges with them by refusing to let them recruit me after the war. Besides, they’re spending all their attention on the Soviets. Duplessis is a knight, a respectable businessman, solid supporter of the war effort. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? It made him disgustingly rich.”

“And you want me to...?”

“Poke, my darling. Don’t tell me you’ve lost the skill. Not to mention that my husband—”

“Estranged husband,” Treville snapped, and she smiled.

“ _Estranged_ husband works for you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you know one or two MI6 officers who go to the Special Forces Club.”

“I don’t go to clubs, Anne. Not any more.”

“I know you, John. You keep friends.”

“Not like you.”

She shrugged. “I can’t help it if I’m too rich for the common man’s blood. How is Oliver?”

“Better.”

“Good.” Treville rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t kill his brother to annoy him. It’s not my fault Thomas was a rotten little double agent and needed killing.”

“It’s your fault you were sleeping with him before that though.”

She stubbed out the cigarette. “If I hadn’t been, how many more of our people would he have betrayed? You can’t possibly be angry over this.”

“I’m not. I just—”

“Wish I had been kinder to my poor, soft-hearted Oliver, and stopped you from sleeping with me so you don’t have to look him in the eye and lie every time you see him?”

Treville pursed his lips. Her intelligence was a lancet. She could slice a soul to shreds before the victim knew they were bleeding. “Any more names?”

She gave him a few more, the ones her lover had been meeting with recently.

“This really is an SIS matter,” he said when she finished.

“I don’t trust anyone there. If they tip him off, I’m a dead woman. You, I trust not to burn me. However much you hate me, I don’t deserve to die.”

He didn’t hate her. He wished he did. “No. I have your permission to bring my men in on this?”

“Keep my name out of it. I’m sure you can invent some pretty doxy who whispered secrets to you while you fucked her.”

He winced in disgust. “Your mind is a sewer.”

“My mind is a weapon, John. Don’t stand there and criticise me after what you, what the SOE asked me to do in the war. I did it for England, and for France. What I do now, is for my survival.” She uncrossed her legs, making sure he had the benefit of it, and stood. “Call me a taxi?”

“How do I contact you?”

“You don’t. I know where to find you. Herman must not discover I’ve been talking to you.” She pointed to an ugly yellow and brown vase his mother had been irrationally fond of. “Put that in the window when you need to talk.”

He called the taxi and she went on her way, leaving nothing but the scent of Turkish cigarettes and jasmine in his house. Nothing, except for a list of names and a possible conspiracy which might be capitalism in its most brutal form—or something much worse.

Nothing but the itch in Treville’s psyche and his body, remembering the weight of her in his arms, the feel of her around him, and the rareness of her true smiles.

Nothing but the disgust at himself for betraying a good friend and brother in arms by even _thinking_ about wanting her again.

****************

On his best day, Oliver Delafere couldn’t beat his boss into the office, and this was far from his best day. It was still a matter of pride not to be late, however hungover or depressed he was, even if he scraped in with only a handful of seconds before nine as he did this morning. He didn’t even have a chance to put his behind into his chair before Treville bellowed, “Athos!”

Oliver winced at the sound, but responded instantly both by training and instinct. Even if Treville hadn’t been his former commander, generations of Delaferes had served men with that tone of voice and it was bred into his bones to obey it.

“Take a seat,” Treville said when Oliver shuffled in. “You look rough.” Oliver only shrugged. They both knew he drank, and why. His boss passed over a piece of paper. “Anything about the names here mean anything to you as a group?”

Oliver scanned them quickly. Junior MPs of both parties, Labour and Tory party officials, spokesmen, and two names which only distantly rang a bell. One was an anti-war campaigner, he seemed to recall. “Not a thing,” he said, going to hand it back.

“Keep it. I want to know what links them, and what influencing them would gain someone.”

“Sorry, could you be more vague, John? I’m running the risk of understanding you.”

Treville gave him a mere flicker of a glance for his cheek. “These were passed to me by someone who thinks that a prominent member of society may be trying to influence these individuals, to do what, they don’t know.”

“Influence? Blackmail, you mean.” That was, after all, what Garrison House dealt with as a speciality.

“Possibly. My source wasn’t sure what the purpose was. I also don’t know if positive action is required or merely a prevention of action.”

“And this high-minded member of society is...?”

Treville pursed his lips and hesitated. “See if you can link them before I tell you. Aramis can help if you need it.”

“As you wish.”

“Oh, and our new secretary starts Monday. Try and be nice to her, will you?”

“When am I ever not nice?”

Treville merely snorted and waved him and the singularly useless piece of paper out of his office.

At his desk, Oliver pored over the names. The only ones he’d bother blackmailing would be the party officials. The others simply didn’t have any kind of influence or position that he knew of. It would help _enormously_ to know _who_ was trying to make them do their bidding. Treville’s reluctance on that score was the real mystery Oliver should look into.

Not that he didn’t have other things to do. The firm he and Treville had set up after the war was finally turning a profit, and everyone was busier than they had ever been. Treville had also advertised for a cadet investigator. Applications were coming in fast for that, but very few came close to fulfilling the specific requirements of the position while displaying the broadmindedness and tolerance that they also needed.

Porthos was out, or perhaps home asleep after a night’s retrieval. Aramis was late, but that wasn’t unusual. Athos bent to his task but was only going to give it half an hour before he went to his first client interview of the day.

Aramis slouched in at twenty after nine, looking exactly as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

“What happened to you?” Oliver asked, but when Aramis grinned and started to answer, he held up a hand, “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t tell me.”

“Probably for the best. You haven’t made tea yet?”

Athos looked significantly at the clock. “I’ve been working.”

“And so have I, dearest Athos.”

“Looking like that?”

“Ah, there was a slight—”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Probably best. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Treville put his head out of his office. “In here, Herblay.”

“Yes, sir. Oops,” Aramis added to Oliver, who felt no sympathy. “Tea will have to wait.”

“I’ll see you later. I have to see a man.”

“Don’t we all.”

Oliver scowled as he put his hat on his head and picked up his coat. He didn’t like those remarks. Aramis’s lack of discretion was going to find him banged up in Pentonville one of these days. It was bad enough that he spent so much time mooning after Porthos, no matter how emphatically their friend loved Alice Clerbeaux, his soon-to-be fiancée. For a sensitive man, Aramis could be extraordinarily cack-handed when it came to his friends.

He’d arranged to meet the new client in a dingy cafe in Islington, a long way from where the client lived or worked. The man was a type Oliver knew well. A married, middle-class respectable gentleman—in this case, a civil servant, but he could as easily have been a banker, a doctor, an army officer, or even a priest—who had been rather foolish in his relationships and fallen prey to the lowest form of existence, a blackmailer.

In this case, the foolish relationship had been with a young man, and of only hours’ duration. A set-up, Athos well knew. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen this, not even the first time with this particular man, which made the case straightforward to handle. But to the client, it was a disaster. “I’ll lose my job, and be prosecuted. My wife...oh God, my children.” He began to cry and snuffle.

Oliver, who carried spare clean handkerchiefs for just this purpose, handed one over, and used his best, soothing voice. “Please be calm, Mr Austen. We will retrieve the material and hand it to you to destroy.”

“But if you don’t?”

“We’re very good at what we do, sir.”

“But you could blackmail me in their stead.”

Not all their clients realised that, so this one was smarter than most. “Yes, we could. But since our thriving business and excellent reputation depends on being unimpeachably trustworthy, we won’t. Our principals and staff to a man loathe blackmailers and have only sympathy for those caught up by the excesses of the law when it comes to private acts.”

The man blinked at him. “S-sympathy?”

“Yes, of course. A man can’t help his desires. Though,” Oliver cleared his throat, “he _can_ help how discreetly he satisfies them.”

“It was a moment of madness, I tell you! I’ve never done anything like that before, I swear.”

Oliver doubted that, but it was neither here nor there right now. “I’m not here to judge you, only to help. But I do need to ask one thing—is your dalliance the only thing for which there will be evidence?”

“I don’t understand.”

“No other illegal acts? I mean to say, if the evidence we retrieve were to show a truly serious crime, like murder, we would be ethically bound to hand it over to the police.”

The man went paler. “No, no! Nothing like that. Good heavens, what do you take me for?”

“I meant no insult. I just wished to be clear. Complete honesty is necessary. Now, if you could give me all the communications you’ve had regarding this?”

Their meeting concluded very shortly afterwards, with the exchange of envelopes—two from the client, one with the letters, the other containing several large value bank notes, while Oliver handed over their terms and conditions, a receipt for the fees in advance, and a handshake. The client would receive a note at his place of employment from Garrison House to say his order was ready for collection, and it was then up to him to get in touch with the firm to arrange a handover.

Oliver stopped at the next phone box he passed and called the office, leaving a message for Porthos to say there was a retrieval required from an old friend, and to wait on Athos’s return before he went out again.

He gave a pub a wistful look as he walked past it. Too early, and he had too much to do. Keeping busy was better than drinking but drinking was better than listening to his melancholy thoughts when he had too little to distract him.

But for now, he did. His next appointment was at Larroque and Saxby, where he picked up a file on two young women who were key to one of the law firm’s clients being able to prove his innocence in a nasty assault case. Old man Larroque chided Athos politely as he made his way out of the building. “Good heavens, Oliver. Don’t tell me you’re working as the office message boy now?”

“It was on my way, sir. Good to see you.”

“And you, my boy.” He laughed at himself. “I should call you ‘my lord’, but my mouth simply won’t have it.”

“And my ears would rather you didn’t, sir. How is Ninon?”

“Oh, that daughter of mine. She’s decided to run for Parliament, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t. Tired of councils already?” Oliver’s childhood friend had been a Labour councillor for five years, and a tireless advocate for the borough residents.

“I think she means to be Prime Minister one day. A woman PM! Can you imagine it, Oliver?”

“Frighteningly, I think I can. I have no doubt if Ninon decides to do it, she will.”

“Yes, indeed. Terrifying and yet so very admirable. You should come to dinner soon. Er...you’re still...?”

“Separated, yes,” Oliver said flatly. “But I would enjoy dinner with you all.”

“Splendid. Bring a guest if you like. I’ll have a note sent round once I speak to Ninon. Her schedule is such a crowded thing these days.”

“I’m sure. I do have to....”

“Yes, of course. Lovely to see you.”

Oliver blew out a breath when he reached the street, and wondered if he could slip down a quick brandy after all. Friends of his parents who’d known him when he was first married were always the hardest, even if they were also some of the most precious from his old life. He could never tell if they were relieved or disappointed to learn he and Anne were not reconciled, and never would be. Divorce would be such a scandal, but on the other hand, _she_ was such a scandal in their eyes. And they didn’t even know what had caused the marriage to fail. Everyone assumed it was the difference in class and education.

Everyone was quite wrong, as usual.

Aramis was out but Porthos was at the office on Oliver’s return there. “Got your message. Freddie Parker up to his tricks again?”

“Freddie and that charming little boy he uses as bait. Same MO as the last three times.”

“Should ask him if I can have a key cut for his office,” Porthos said, grinning at his own joke. “He knows I’m gonna get the photos back.”

“Be careful, and don’t assume they’re in his office. He’s not the brightest bulb, one has to admit, but he may have finally worked out that some of his victims are prepared to fight back.”

“You leave all that to me, Athos.”

Oliver was happy to do so. Porthos didn’t need his advice or supervision—merely the name and a description of the victim. “Might not be a bad thing to retrieve anything else lying around. I do so want to put this little shit out of business.”

“Less work for us.”

“There is that. Though another one always springs up, unfortunately. If they would stick to unfaithful men and their mistresses, I wouldn’t be so angry, but these poor blighters are damned whichever way they leap. Stay quiet and be bled dry, go to the police and be prosecuted for gross indecency or worse.”

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder. “How about I pull the ones where Freddie’s used his nancy boy as bait, leave the rest?”

“Yes. Teach him a lesson. You’d better check with Treville first, but I’m sure he’ll agree.”

“I’ll take care of it. You look rough.”

“Do I? How surprising.”

Porthos’s brow wrinkled. “Three years, Athos. You should be over it.”

“I will as soon as I can forget I ever knew her.” Porthos leaned in, concerned at his bleak tone. “Ignore me. I met a friend of my family. The name came up.”

“It’s shit when that happens.” He squeezed Athos’s shoulder. “You need to divorce her and move on.”

Athos didn’t reply. The question of divorce was too burdened with horror and hate and revulsion for him to even think of it, and the idea of sitting down with his solicitor to draw up the papers made his stomach roil. Porthos knew better than to expect an answer. “Got anything else for me?”

“Not yet.” He tapped the file he’d picked up at Larroque and Saxby. “I’ll get Luke onto this and if he can’t break the back of it, I’ll toss it at you or Aramis.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just go in and speak to the guv’nor, and then head out.”

Athos returned to his desk, but his thoughts were on Ninon. It really had been too long since he’d spoken to her, and perhaps this little puzzle Treville had tossed at him might benefit from her keen mind.

A woman as PM, though. The country would never stand for it.

****************

Treville moved the vase on Friday. By Sunday, he’d heard nothing from Anne, and was trying to decide if the matter was worth bringing to his friends in MI6. That evening, he went to the pub for his usual pint and found her in his usual seat with a gin and tonic in front of her. “Aren’t you being a little reckless?” he said as he sat next to her in the snug.

“No one ever comes to this end of Hammersmith, John. It’s well known. What do you have?”

“We extracted some material for a client from a well-known—at least to us—blackmailer. Our agent—”

“Isaac Porthos.”

He stared at her. “How—”

“It’s not important. Go on. Porthos?”

“He was under instructions to remove anything similar from this blackguard’s collection as we’d rather like to put him out of business. Canute and the tide, I know, but we try.”

She picked up her drink and sipped it. “I’m not interested in your moral crusade. Go on.”

He remembered Anne as she was when SOE first recruited her. Back then, she had soft edges, and Athos still loved her. Now she was nothing but a blade, and he and the war shared the blame for that. “Three of the victims are on your list. Did you know that?”

“No.” She pursed her lips as she considered what he’d said.

“Do they know they’ve been compromised? Do any of the others?”

“Not yet. Herman is setting up insurance, not claiming on it. What are the names?”

“McKinnon, Conway, and Granger. Coincidence?”

“One, possible. Not three.”

“So, do you think Duplessis hired our blackmailer to collect this material on them?”

“Those three were men Herman sent me out to seduce. Very belt and braces. Very Herman.”

“So those three at least are important. More important.”

She looked into his eyes. “I don’t know.” She sounded sincere, but then, she was good at that. “Have you been able to work out a motive?”

“Certainly not for these three. They’re not quite nobodies, but they’re not influential in their own right.”

“McKinnon is the son of a senior minister. Granger is a pacifist, so why would anyone care about him? And Conway....” She frowned. “Conway is just a minor MP in a safe seat.”

Safe seats could be lost if a sitting MP was embroiled in a big enough scandal. “Does Duplessis have political ambitions?”

“Not for himself. He despises the entire parliamentary system. To him, a strong king and a cooperative cabinet is what this country needs.”

“Or a strong dictator. Didn’t we just fight a war over this?”

“Yes, we did.” Her eyes were now cold. “But the sentiment remains. Not all Englishmen hated the idea of Hitler.”

“Quite. So, what do you want me to do now? I should really go to MI6, and since we have this source of a threat independently of you, your name could be kept out of it.”

“My name will be dragged in, though. Keep digging, John. At least find out what hobbling these men would do, and give me a week before you hand this over. That’ll give me time to vanish. You owe me that much.”

“Yes, I do. I don’t know why you think I would want to destroy you.”

“Oliver.” She spoke the name with regret, without bitterness. It made him feel an unwelcome spike of sympathy for her

“Even Athos doesn’t want you destroyed. He simply wishes your marriage didn’t exist.”

“I’ll agree to a divorce the moment he asks for one. But he won’t. The scandal would be too shocking for Lord Delafere. And I quite enjoy being ‘milady’ while he dithers.”

He sipped from his pint to hide his disgust. “You use the title with Duplessis?”

“God, no. But it’s useful for reservations and so on. Oliver needs to move on. His brother was a filthy traitor and I don’t regret killing him for a moment. The affair....” She made a dismissive wave with her hand. “It was war, I was lonely and frightened, and he offered. Pursued me, I should say.”

Treville sat up. “You never told me that before.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Of course it does.”

“Ask Oliver if it does, John. I think you’ll find it doesn’t.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to go.”

“Let me call you a taxi.” He went to the bar and asked to use the phone, then returned. “What’s it like, being with a man you despise?”

She blew smoke in his direction. “Better than being with a man who despises me. I did worse during the war.”

“But this isn’t war.”

“Isn’t it? Peace isn’t won once. It has to be fought for, constantly, so the enemy doesn’t slip back in while we’re patting ourselves on the back.”

“The enemy is the Soviets now.”

Her nostrils flared as acid sharpened her tone. “The enemy is whoever believes that they would be better in charge of the country rather than the lesser orders, however defined. In Germany, it was us, the Jews, who were lesser. In England, it’s the working class. Beware of a man whose claim to rule is based on innate superiority of breeding.”

“Like our king.”

“His majesty doesn’t rule. Beware those who rule him.”

They sat in silence for a minute or so, she smoking without looking at anything in particular, until the barman caught Treville’s eye. “Your taxi’s here, sir.”

“Let me walk you out,” Treville said to Anne. The cold air bit at their faces, and he put an arm instinctively around her shoulders as they walked towards the taxi. He helped her into it and handed the cabbie a half-crown to take her where she wanted to go. “I’ll give you whatever time you ask for.”

She touched his hand. “Thank you, John.”

“Goodnight.”

He watched the taxi drive away. Damn it. She always knew how to muddle him up.


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver had an early appointment on Monday, so missed the introduction of the new secretary to the rest of the office. When he came in, a pretty brunette was already at the desk vacated by the formidable Mrs Browning upon her retirement. “Good morning, sir. You must be Mr Delafere.”

“Athos,” he said, offering his hand. “And you’re—”

“Constance. Constance Bonneville,” she answered, accepting his paw. “Nice to meet you.”

She had a lovely smile, and a pleasant voice with a broad Mancunian accent. “And you.”

“Mr Treville said you’d break me in.”

Athos blinked in shock. “Er....”

“You know, show me what kind of files you investigators want set up when you accept a client, how you like your records labelled and ordered and that kind of thing.”

He relaxed. “Oh.” He’d rather thought Aramis would be the one...or perhaps not. Yes, the major’s decision made sense, now he thought of it. “We could start with the client I met this morning.”

She joined him at his desk. Aramis was out, thank God. Luke, one of their junior researchers was over by the books, and the other, Edward, was at his desk, poring over a file. “I take it Treville explained the kind of work we do and the kind of clients we accept.”

“Yes, sir—”

“Athos, please.”

She blushed. “All right. Yes, he did. He explained why, erm, absolute discretion is required.”

“Quite. We could ruin lives all too easily.”

“Loose lips sink ships. I do remember.”

“You were at Bletchley, I recall.”

Her expression turned wary. “I can’t—”

“No, I know. You’ll find a few of us had to sign the Official Secrets Act, same as you. So you understand. We don’t ask that you break the law, but we’re not here to make the life of the police easier at the expense of otherwise upright citizens.”

“I do understand. I think the law is cruel, myself.”

“Do you?” Unusual to find a woman so forthright on the issue.

“Yes, sir...Athos. It’s not right, locking young men up and ruining their names just because they don’t like women. I have friends back home who are queer, but they’re as nice as anything. Just ordinary people, same as you and me. You won’t find me tattling to the police.”

Oliver took a moment to take in her passionate words. “Excellent. Then shall we begin with another nice gentleman who’s harmed no one?”

She was a very quick study, and he didn’t have to tell her anything twice. Of course they didn’t take fools at Bletchley Park. Shame Treville hadn’t considered her for the cadet investigator post, but perhaps she didn’t want to be involved in that side of the business. it wasn’t for everyone.

Aramis and Porthos strode in together around eleven, Aramis’s eyes sparkling as they often did when he’d been teasing Porthos. They were both in good moods, which immediately made Oliver wary of how they would treat Constance. Their ebullience could be a bit much.

He needn’t have worried. Constance had met them already, and found their measure. “I see you’ve met our resident nobleman,” Aramis said, much to Oliver’s irritation. “I hope you’re being nice to our beautiful amanuensis, my lord.”

“He’s politer than you, Mr Herblay. Lord Delafere is a perfect gentleman.”

Porthos threw his head back and laughed. “That’s you told, mate. Don’t mind him, Constance. Aramis hates competition.”

Oliver had no intention of competing with Aramis for anyone, let alone a fellow employee. “Could we continue?” he murmured, putting his head down again to look at the file.

“Yes, please,” Constance said with one last withering look at the newcomers. Oliver hid a grin. She could look after herself.

When he had sent her away with the work he needed her to do, Treville stuck his head out of his office. “If you have a moment?”

Oliver went in and shut the door. “Why did you tell Miss Bonneville about my title?”

“Better to hear it from me than from the others, don’t you think? I didn’t realise you wanted to keep it secret.”

“It’s not a part of my life I want to talk about. People tend to make assumptions I’d rather they didn’t.”

“And did she?”

“That’s not the point. What did you want?”

Treville waved at him to take a seat. “I wanted to talk to you about the material Porthos retrieved. What’s your feeling about it? Should we contact the victims? Or just destroy it?”

“Contact the victims. If we simply destroy the photos, they might fall victim to the same tactic again, all unawares.”

“Agreed. There’s an extra wrinkle however. My contact tells me that the three from the list who turned up in those files had already had compromising ‘insurance’ taken out on them.”

“Two sets of blackmail material?” Oliver frowned. “Why?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Why are these three so important? It makes no sense.” Oliver ran over the short list of names and their various positions in his head. “Unless the person doing the compromising hasn’t yet decided whether he wants to disable or utterly destroy them.”

“You assume that Freddie Parker is working for someone else.”

“Is he?”

“I think we need to know that. I’ll ask Aramis and Porthos to have a word with our Mister Parker. I want you to speak to the three victims, tell them what we found, warn them they’re not in the clear. And I want to know what makes them so bloody important.”

“Understood. You still don’t feel like telling me who your contact is, or who they’re concerned about?”

“In good time, Athos. Let me know how you get on.”

Politely dismissed, Oliver left Treville’s office. He found Aramis sitting on the corner of Constance’s desk. Constance was ignoring him, something most women in Athos’s experience found impossible to do. “Aramis, Porthos, the boss has a job for you.”

They moved smartly, and once Constance was alone, Oliver walked over. “Uh...don’t let them overwhelm you.”

“I have three older brothers, Athos. I can handle naughty boys.”

He smiled. “No doubt.”

He returned to his desk and pulled out the file on the men whose photos with Freddie’s little pal Porthos had retrieved. Two junior MPs, a pacifist. Not wealthy, not important. Why?

His title was good for one thing and one thing only—as a member of the House of Lords (though he would never, ever sit there), he had unfettered access to the Lords’ dining room in the Palace of Westminster, and arranging a meeting with an MP was as simple as sending a note to the man’s office and waiting.

McKinnon didn’t make him wait long. “Lord Delafere, how nice to meet you.”

Oliver shook his hand. “Tea? Something stronger?”

McKinnon laughed. “It’s not yet noon, my lord. We’re not all hard drinkers in the Commons.”

“No? Oh well, tea it is.” Athos signalled the waiter and asked for tea for both of them. “McKinnon, I’m here on a matter of some delicacy.” He kept his voice low, but there was no one near them. He summarised the situation as quickly and briefly as he could, but McKinnon still went pale.

“Someone was about to blackmail me?”

“Apparently. The thing is—we have only retrieved one set of photos. We have information that a different set, from a different compromising situation, exists. You are by no means safe.”

“What different situation?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. Apart from encountering the gentleman I’ve told you about, have you had another intimate encounter which, if revealed, could be used against you?” McKinnon stared. “I mean, recently. Say, in the last six months.”

McKinnon swallowed as if he might be ill. “How can I trust you won’t use the information against me?”

“If I wanted to ruin you, I already have enough to do that. What else might a potential blackmailer be able to use.”

The man swallowed. “My lord....”.

“I’m a man of the world, McKinnon. I’ve seen a lot of things, met many people of all different tastes and habits. I don’t judge private acts between consenting adults, whatever the law says.”

“It’s not that. I’m married. And my father....”

Athos held up his hand. “You can rely on my discretion and upon my honour.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You only have to say, man or woman, and a date.”

“A woman. About six weeks ago. It was only the once.”

“And do you make a habit of these kind of brief encounters?”

“No, I swear!” He leaned in, sweating. “These two are the first in...a long time. At least a year. My family...I’ve spent a lot of time in London. It’s lonely.”

“I do understand,” Oliver said, though he had little sympathy for an adulterer. “The woman—blonde?”

“No. Dark hair. Green eyes. Very pretty. Quite a proper lady, or so I thought. We went to a hotel.”

“Name? Of the hotel.”

McKinnon gave him the information. “She said she was called Clarissa. Told me her husband was in America and she was bored.”

Oliver scribbled a note to himself. “Now this might be harder to answer. Apart from your father and your family, do you know of anyone who might suffer if you were...exposed?”

“No one. My staff, I suppose. I’m not important. People only ever want to talk to me to get to my father,” he added somewhat bitterly. “We’re not even particularly close.”

“I understand. Thank you for talking to me. Can I urge you to be much more guarded in whom you meet and in what circumstances?”

“This other set of incriminating material. Who has it? And what are they planning to do with it?”

“I don’t know. But we’re investigating.”

“‘We’re’? Forgive me, my lord, I thought this was your show.”

“I work with a team at Garrison House. We are all committed to the defence of privacy. We’ve come to you as an act of kindness, to poke the villains in the eye. But we can’t help you if you are going to keep giving blackmailers opportunities. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. It’s jolly decent of you.”

Athos handed him his card. “Contact me if you think of anything else that might be helpful in tracking the people behind this. I should also warn you that other MPs are being targeted, and it’s possible they might be forced to help entrap others. I doubt this is about money.”

“I’m no one,” McKinnon murmured as he stood.

“Clearly not to everyone. Good day, McKinnon.”

****************

Treville looked up as Athos stalked into his office and shut the door a little forcefully. “Three men all targeted by the same woman. Dark hair, green eyes, calling herself Clarissa. The two MPs I can see as useful—McKinnon could be used against his father, and Conway could leave a very convenient hole for someone to step into. But Granger? He’s harmless—obsessively committed to pacifism, a devout Quaker, and gives most of his income to charity. You know who’s after them, and if you know that, you can help me understand why. Tell me the truth, John.”

Treville welcomed this rare show of passion in his friend, however irritating it was to be spoken to this way. He deserved it, unfortunately. “Herman Duplessis. My contact works for him. Doesn’t like what they’re seeing.”

“Who is she?”

“I didn’t say—”

“If your contact was a man, you’d have said ‘he’. Clearly you thought I’d work out who she is if you tell me the contact is a woman. Who is she?”

“Anne. Your wife.”

Athos’s lips narrowed to invisibility, and he turned and thumped the wall. “My wife’s in contact with you, and trying to involve you in God knows what. Did it not occur to you this whole farrago could be her way of trying to entrap you? To destroy what we’ve built up here? Have you _forgotten_ _what she did_?”

“Lower your voice unless you enjoy everyone knowing your business.”

“It’s not me who should be ashamed, John. When did you meet her? Where did you meet her? _Why_ did you meet her?”

“None of your business, none of your business, and she came to me. I didn’t invite her.”

Athos turned and came over to lean on Treville’s desk. “Why _you_?”

“Why not me? I was her commanding officer. She trusts me.”

“Why do _you_ trust _her_?”

“Athos, she was unfaithful to you, but she never betrayed England. She was a loyal soldier, same as you. I have no reason to distrust her, and what she’s told me is worrying. Take off your blinkers, man. This is why I didn’t want to tell you. You have no sense of proportion.”

“She killed—”

Treville glared. “A double-agent.”

“My brother. Her lover.”

 “A traitor. If she hadn’t executed him, someone else would. Maybe even me.”

Athos slammed out of the room. Treville sighed and rubbed his forehead. It had been more than three years since the entangled Delaferes had created a dreadful mess, leading to the death of one, the estrangement of the others. And yet, at the time, there had been no better way to handle it. Anne Delafere had discovered Athos’s brother, Thomas, was working for the Germans and had already betrayed over two dozen brave men and women. Killing him was urgent, and she was the best one to do it because he would never suspect his lover. Treville had known that, and he was certain Athos knew it in his heart.

If only Anne had shown some regret at the deed, at least in front of her husband. But her fierce pride and even fiercer loathing of traitors would not allow that, and Athos’s grief had swallowed up his once overpowering passion and love for his beautiful wife, leaving only hate behind. Anne had walked away to let her husband grieve for his brother, the man he’d once thought more noble than himself, and refused to beg for either forgiveness or understanding. “I did it for _England_ ,” Anne had spat at him, and Treville.

What Athos would never understand was that she’d also done it for him. Treville ached for both of them, but had no idea how to help either. In the dying days of the war, Anne had retreated from the field, injured and heartbroken, while Athos had thrown himself almost recklessly into further missions. She had come to Treville looking for comfort, and he, carrying his own griefs, had been too weak to refuse her. Their affair had been brief, fiery, and doomed to end in recrimination because of Treville’s guilt.

Anne didn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t an emotion she had any patience with.

Treville had treated her badly, so that was another source of guilt. There was nothing to be done about it now, but he wished so very much that Athos and Anne would sit down and _talk_.

Hell would freeze over first.

****************

Oliver sat at his desk, cursing that the pubs were shut and he’d promised Treville never to drink in the office. Shame he had such an aversion to the clubs he was a nominal member of.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Constance start to rise, only to subside at a glance from Porthos. Wonderful. She’d been here all of a day and already she was conspiring with his friends to manage him.

His friends knew better to approach him in this mood. He glared at the papers on his desk, unseeing, until his heart rate dropped and the blood-red mist of anger became the ever-present veil of bitter misery over his thoughts. He made himself unclench and smile in a fashion at their new staff member. “Did you have something for me, Constance?”

“A note from Mr Larroque. Sent round just after you left this morning.” She walked over and handed it to him. For the first time, Athos noticed that she wasn’t quite as young as he’d first imagined, and there were fine lines of stress around her eyes and mouth.

“Thank you. Was there anything else?”

“No. Are _you_ all right?”

Brave girl, if somewhat foolhardy. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.”

She frowned a little, but returned to her desk. Aramis took the opportunity to wander over. “We’re not heading out to meet the inestimable Freddie Parker until much later. Care to have dinner with us?”

Oliver started to say no, but realised if he didn’t accept, he’d most likely just go back to his flat and drink. “If you like.”

“Excellent. _Are_ you all right?” he asked in a much quieter tone.

“Not here.” Oliver didn’t know if Treville wanted the others to know. But damn it, if he couldn’t trust Aramis and Porthos to be discreet, he couldn’t trust anyone. He couldn’t live like that.

Edwin Larroque’s dinner invitation was for Wednesday week, and repeated if he had a guest he wanted to bring, that would be lovely. Oliver made a note in his diary and scribbled a reply to go in the post. Just as he was about to seal the envelope, he had a thought, and added that he would be bringing someone. Just who, he wasn’t sure, but Treville would do at a pinch. He wanted to pick Larroque’s brain, and bringing an extra cranium might help.

At six, Constance rose. “Good night, everyone.” Aramis helped her on with her coat, which earned him a smile but no encouragement.

“Leave her alone,” Oliver murmured when his friend came over to his desk.

“Manners never harmed anyone. You should try them some time.”

Oliver lifted his head and scowled. “Piss. Off.”

Porthos grinned and Aramis shook his head in mock disapproval. “And him such a gentleman.”

“He ain’t no gentleman. He’s a nob. Nobs can be as rude as they like.” Oliver’s glare told Porthos he could piss off too if he pleased.

Treville hadn’t emerged from his office after Oliver’s tantrum, and wouldn’t, Oliver suspected, until they cleared off. At twenty past six, Aramis tossed Oliver his hat and handed him his coat. “Come along, _mon frère_.”

The office’s position on High Holborn meant they were spoilt for choice when it came to pubs. Athos favoured heading to Bloomsbury. Aramis preferred the haunts of Soho, and Porthos was always happier going west. Tonight, Athos didn’t care, and since Aramis had done the inviting, he had the right to choose. He took them no more than a few hundred yards, around the corner to the [Grapes in Red Lion Street](https://pubshistory.com/LondonPubs/Holborn/Grapes.shtml). It was small, unfashionable, and did decent food. Athos approved, and after a whisky, was able to appreciate Aramis’s thoughtfulness at selecting a quiet place for them all.

Over plates of sausages and mash, and pints of stout, he allowed his friends to question him over the afternoon’s tempest. “It’s Anne,” he admitted. “She’s been in touch with Treville.”

Aramis regarded him thoughtfully. Porthos was puzzled. “So? Makes sense, don’t it? He was her boss, same as us. Him and her never had a bust up. That was all you two.”

“You didn’t realise she was in London,” Aramis guessed.

“No. I thought she had gone back to France.”

“Perhaps she did and found there was nothing left for her. Did you ever enquire whether any of her family survived?”

“No,” Oliver admitted. He could have asked. He should have asked.

“Then is it such a surprise that she came back to where she had made a new life? You can’t forbid her the city. She’s earned the right to live here as much as you have.”

“Yes, I know. It caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Caught young Constance by surprise and all,” Porthos said. “You two shouting. She went white as a ghost.”

“I’ll apologise tomorrow,” Oliver murmured, sorry to have caused the girl distress.

“Yeah, do that. But she’s tough. I bet she’s seen worse.”

Aramis leaned back in his chair. “A young widow, Treville says.”

“Now, you keep your fingers off her,” Porthos said, before Oliver could. “I like her. She’s sensible, and she can cope with you.”

“You sound as if I spent all day teasing her. I did no such thing.”

“You were quick enough to tell her my private business though,” Oliver said, giving his friend a reproving glare. “I’ve told you—my title and rank are not matters I want discussed in the office.”

“But Treville had already told her.” Aramis gave Oliver his second-best wounded look. “It’s not a secret.”

“It’s not a source of pride either. Your food’s getting cold.”

He turned the conversation to the three people targeted both by Freddie Parker and Herman Duplessis, though he didn’t mention the latter. “Why would anyone want to blackmail a harmless and impoverished pacifist?”

“We need more of them,” Aramis opined. “More pacifism, less war. Suits me.”

“And me.” Porthos frowned in thought. “Personal grudge?”

“Unlikely. Mr Parker’s information about his employer will be interesting.”

“I plan to give him a proper fright.” Porthos’s grin would be cheering if it didn’t look so much like a grizzly bear preparing to attack. “Hate blackmailers. ‘Specially when he’s having it away with his nancy boy himself. Hypocrite.”

“I hadn’t realised,” Oliver said. “That does seem fouler than usual.”

“Perhaps we could attempt a little counter-coercion,” Aramis said. “Tell him to get out of the business or he’ll find himself before the magistrate himself.”

“Then that would make us hypocrites in turn.”

“We don’t have to do it,” Porthos said. “Just threaten, like.”

“I suppose that’s fair. Let’s not involve the constabulary at this point though.”

“You telling me my business again?”

Oliver shook his head at his grinning friend. “Never. I wouldn’t dare.”

“No, you better not. I got some news for you. Me and Alice are engaged.”

“My congratulations.” Oliver didn’t risk looking at Aramis. “No trouble with the family?”

“Her dad’s not happy, but she’s an independent woman. He don’t get no say. We’re gonna head to the registry office after Christmas. If you’re around, you can come.”

He’d said that shyly, as if he expected his best friends to refuse just because the marriage was interracial. “If you attempt to marry without me there, I shall break your legs,” Oliver said, which made Porthos guffaw. “Just give me a date and I shall endeavour to fit you into my packed diary.”

“I can do that.”

“I think that calls for another round of drinks,” Oliver said, about to stand and fetch them, but Aramis put his hand on his arm.

“Better not. We need our wits about us. Sorry.”

“Not at all. Next time,” he said. “Do you know where you can find little Fred?”

“More or less,” Porthos said. “Don’t worry. He’ll be singing sweet as a sparrow before midnight.”

“If you’re putting the frighteners on, better have a word with that boy of his too. I don’t want him setting up business as Parker’s apprentice.”

“Understood.” Porthos finished off his pint. “Just gonna see a man about a dog and then we’ll be off. That all right with you, Aramis?”

“Of course.”

Aramis’s expression turned gloomy as soon as he was alone with Athos. “You knew this was coming. He’s straight, Aramis,” Athos said.

Aramis nodded, staring at his glass. “I know. Alice doesn’t like me, that’s all.”

“The world is full of people ready to be charmed by you. Go after one of them.”

“But you’ve forbidden me the most attractive woman I’ve seen in a while.”

Athos lifted an eyebrow. “Constance? She’s lovely, I admit, but surely you can do as well or better outside the office.”

“When do I have a chance? I’m either working, or with one of you.”

“You used to have no difficulty finding congenial company.”

“Not so much any more.”

The war had been especially hard on Aramis. He’d lost his entire team in a failed mission five years before, a girl he had fallen in love with, died in the Blitz, and he had been seriously wounded three times. No wonder he clung to a pointless crush on his best friend, rather than risk more pain with unreliable strangers.

 Oliver clasped his shoulder and shook him gently. “I’m sorry, my brother. Come to mine tomorrow? We can talk. And drink.”

Aramis forced out a smile. “Drinking sounds good. Are _you_ all right?”

“As you both pointed out, I’m overreacting. Here he comes.”

Porthos stood at the table, hat and coat in hand. “Ready?”

Aramis climbed to his feet. “Of course.”

“Good hunting,” Oliver said.

“You staying here?”

“When I finish this, I’m going home.”

Porthos nodded, reassured. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Fifteen minutes later Oliver had finished his pint and had called a taxi to take him to Chelsea. He had a bottle of brandy at his flat, but it would be ridiculous to drink himself unconscious just because _she_ was back in London. Hard spirits were an overreaction, but a bottle of good claret was a proportionate response.

Anything to stop himself dreaming of Thomas, and Anne shooting him down like a dog in a French forest.

****************

The confrontation with the despised Freddie Parker was comically straightforward. Like many criminals, and all blackmailers, Parker was a coward, happy to hide behind the law to hurt his homosexual victims and fear of losing wives and children for the rest of them. But in person, he was physically unimposing. scrawny, prematurely balding, with the flashy tasteless fashion sense of a pimp. His boyfriend was better looking, but no braver. He ran away as soon as Porthos grabbed Parker by the shirtfront, and Aramis had to haul him back to listen to the life lesson Athos thought he should hear.

Parker was only too happy to blab what he knew, but unfortunately, he knew very little. He had a name—Smith—for the man who’d hired him to compromise the three men whose photos Porthos had liberated, but no idea who Smith really was, or whom he worked for. No amount of threatening shook more than piss out of him, and after telling the disgusting pair that they’d better find another line of work _tout suite,_ Porthos shoved Parker away and told him to bugger off.

“Well that was pointless,” Aramis said as their erstwhile companions scurried away. “We even have time for a last pint.” The weather had deteriorated and light rain was falling.

“I shouldn’t. I promised Alice I’d come over if I finished early, and I was out all weekend.”

“Of course,” Aramis said with a smile, hiding his feelings. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk you to the tube.” Porthos patted Aramis’s shoulder. “Think Athos will be in a better mood?” he said as they turned towards Bond Street.

“No idea. Depends if he can let this business with his wife go.”

“It’s a tough one. I mean, it was his brother and everything—”

Aramis saw something out of the corner of his eye, and jerked in shock, even as the figment disappeared. “No. It can’t....”

“Aramis?”

“I thought I saw someone I knew. But he’s dead.” He shook himself, feeling chilled suddenly even inside his good coat.

Porthos stopped him and slung his arm over Aramis’s shoulder. “You okay, brother?”

Aramis melted briefly into his friend’s warm embrace before pushing himself away. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Just another ghost.”

Porthos nodded. “We’ve all got plenty of them. I can make my excuses with Alice if you need me to come round.”

“No, no. Go to your lady love.” Aramis made himself smile brightly. “I can’t imagine you married, little children at your knee, pipe in hand, listening to the Light Programme on a Sunday evening by the fire.”

“Me neither, to tell the truth. But she’s a lovely girl. I’m a lucky man.”

“Yes, you are,” Aramis agreed, though he wished he could be more sincere in that thought. “Let’s go.”

Porthos went west, Aramis north to Camden. By now it was raining hard and there was no temptation to linger or to pay a solitary visit to a pub on the way home. He sprinted until he reached his building and ran up the stairs to his bedsit. He put [a shilling in the meter](http://www.coinbooks.org/esylum_v18n52a16.html) and lit the gas fire, and was at last able to remove a couple of layers to absorb the warmth.

Once thawed, he put the kettle on the hob for tea. Alice was probably doing the same thing for Porthos right now in her lovely house in Ealing. Aramis had always known that Porthos would never be interested in him romantically, but he’d always feared that marriage and children would end up changing, if not ending, the easy closeness between them that had lasted since 1936, when they were young privates in the 3rd Infantry Division.

Their comrades formed their own tight groups, closing out those too different from their experience. Aramis was half-French, and seen as a little too effete for the ranks, and Porthos was black. This was enough to exclude them socially, at least until fighting alongside each other erased such petty matters. Porthos had been wary of the foppish figure Aramis deliberately presented, but had been won over by his raw skill. Aramis had never needed winning over. He had been in lust with Porthos from the moment he saw him, and loved him as a brother as soon as they began to work together.

Athos joined the Army in 1938 as a raw lieutenant, shy and diffident about leading men in a real battle, but he had quickly proved himself, and Porthos and Aramis both admired obvious competence. War had led to promotion for the three of them, and a harsh proving of mettle that all too many men did not survive.

After Dunkirk, they were separated. Aramis was too valuable as a sniper and as a Francophone not to use in occupied Europe, carrying out covert operations with a small team of men of similar skills and backgrounds, supporting French resistance fighters. Porthos had served In France and Africa, while Athos, now Captain Delafere, had worked with Major Treville for the SOE, as had his wife and brother. Once the war was over, licking wounds spiritual and physical, they’d found each other again. Athos had sworn to find a way to keep them all together from hence forth.

And he had, until pretty Alice Clerbeaux had spotted Porthos one sunny afternoon in Hyde Park, won his heart, and threatened to break up their little group of friends forever.

Aramis sat with his tea, staring into the fire, trying to convince himself to go to bed. He rose to pour a second cup of tea, but splashed it over himself when he heard a knock at the door. He snapped off the light, and silently unlocked the gun safe under the sink and removed the pistol, before going to the door. “Who is it?”

“Aramis, it’s Paul. Paul Marsac”

Paul Marsac? The man who was dead, the ghost Aramis had thought he’d seen in Marylebone?

He held the pistol in front of him and unlocked the door. “It _is_ you,” he breathed when he saw the man waiting for him.

Paul glanced at Aramis’s gun. “May I come in?”

Aramis put the gun on the shelf near the door and held the door open. As soon as Paul was inside, Aramis embraced the comrade he’d thought lost in the mission code-named ‘Savoy’, in 1942. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you were dead.”

“I may as well have been.”

His friend was shaking with cold, and far too lightly dressed for the night-time temperatures. “Let me get you some tea. Sit by the fire, there’s still plenty of gas left. Do you want something to eat? I have some bread and marg. I could make toast.”

“Bread’s fine. Thank you.”

Aramis retrieved his gun and locked it up again, before attending to Paul’s needs. Bringing a plate of bread and marg, and a cup of tea over to his friend, Aramis noted that Paul’s clothes weren’t just insufficient, but dirty and ragged. Paul fell on the food like a starving man.

Aramis went to a cupboard and fetched a glass so he could pour his friend some brandy. “Where are you living? Where have you been all these years?”

“I’m sleeping rough, but I’ve been looking for you.”

“I haven’t been hiding. Where have you been?”

He handed Paul the brandy, and his friend took a gulp before replying. “Looking for the men behind our team being murdered. It wasn’t bad luck, Aramis. We were betrayed by our own side.”

Aramis sat heavily on his only kitchen chair. “I thought you’d been captured by the Germans after we were ambushed. I only managed to escape because they thought I was dead.”

Paul nodded. “I saw you go down. I had no chance of saving you or any of them, so I ran.”

“But you never returned...you deserted! You left me to die, you left all our comrades, and you ran away!” Aramis leapt to his feet, and grabbed Paul by the collar, dragging him up to shake him. “ _Salaud_. _Fils de pute.”_

Paul tried to push him away but Aramis held on grimly. “I was wounded too. I hid nearby, hoping to go back and help anyone who’d survived. I heard the German captain talking on the radio. He said ‘Tell the cardinal his information was good’. Aramis, someone betrayed us.”

“ _You_ betrayed us! Damn you, Paul! I searched everywhere. I wrote to your parents to tell them you were missing in action, presumed dead. I told them you had been a brave soldier. I lied!”

Paul’s face twisted. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t return until I knew who’d betrayed us. Later, I took weapons and supplies off the bodies, and I went hunting for the officer I’d heard that morning. I spent the next three years killing Germans, but I never found him. After the war was over, I knew I couldn’t come back to England. It had been too long. So I went to South America, looking for a new life and work. I stopped looking for the captain. I’d failed.”

“So why come back now? Come to face judgement? Your father died in the Blitz. Your mother thinks you’re _dead_.”

“I know.” He sagged in Aramis’s grip. Aramis let him go, but was ready to grab him again. Paul Marsac was not getting away again. “Three months ago, I was in Ecuador. I’d been working on a cattle ranch and was spending my pay, drinking in Quito. While I was ordering a beer, I heard someone speaking Spanish with a heavy German accent, so I looked over at him and it was the captain I’d been looking for. Five years, Aramis. All that time, and I stumbled across him.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I wanted to. I think he realised that from my expression. But he wasn’t afraid of me. He offered me a drink as an apology for what was done by his country during the war, and wanted to let bygones be bygones. So instead of killing him, I asked him about that ambush. He remembered it well, he said. He’d been promoted and been given a medal by Hitler himself for his success. I felt sick.”

Paul’s eyes went distant, as if he was losing himself in memory, so Aramis shook his shoulder. “And?”

Paul’s attention snapped back. “He said that his commander had received details of the time and place of our planned attack from a source who’d it direct from an English officer. ‘An Englishman with a French name’, he said. He thought that was funny.”

“Who? What was the name?”

“Treville. He said the Englishman was called Treville. I’ve come back to England to find him, and then I’m going to kill him."


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver’s restraint the previous evening meant he had only the slightest headache when he arrived at the Garrison House offices the following morning. Their new staff member was already there.

“Good morning, Constance. I want to apologise for frightening you yesterday. Major Treville and I go back a long way. We, uh....” He flailed mentally for how to describe a complex friendship of many years’ standing.

She smiled at him. “It’s all right. Porthos and Aramis explained. I was surprised, that’s all. Didn’t know where to look.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. It was an inexcusable loss of temper. I won’t let it happen again.”

She bobbed her head in acknowledgement. “Aramis called. He’s unwell, he said, and won’t be in. I’ve told the major.”

“Oh. I wonder what’s wrong. Thank you.”

Porthos came in as Olivier sat down. “What’s wrong with Aramis?” Oliver asked.

“Wrong? Nothing. Why?”

“He rang in sick. I thought perhaps he might have shown symptoms last night.”

“Not that I saw. He was a bit spooked by something but that’s all. I’m going to give the guv’nor my report, if you want to listen in.”

Oliver did, so after Porthos knocked on Treville’s door and was gruffly told to enter, he sidled in behind his friend. Treville spare him the briefest glance. “How did you get on?”

“The good news is that I think Freddie and friend won’t be bothering us again, at least not soon. The bad news is that he was hired to compromise those three blokes, but all he knows is that the fellow called himself ‘Smith’, and he has no idea who Smith is.”

Treville made a face. “Description?”

“Said he sounded ‘foreign’, but nothing more specific. Older gent, nicely dressed—which could mean anything considering it’s Freddie—glasses. No scars or any other identifying features. Useless.”

“Quite.” Treville looked at Oliver. “You’ve calmed down, I hope.”

“Yes. Sorry. Where do we go from here, though? I gather your contact has nothing more to offer?” He kept his tone flat and uninformative.

“I didn’t say that. As a working proposition, we should assume ‘Smith’ works for Duplessis. But we need to find out what links all these people, so keep digging, Athos. Porthos, what’s wrong with Aramis?”

“No idea, boss.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I thought I might drop over and see how he is after work.”

“Very well. I have someone to interview, so....”

They left his office.  “Want me to come with you tonight?” Porthos asked.

Oliver shook his head. “No need. I’ll take over some food and brandy and see if I can coax some life out of his corpse.”

Porthos grinned. “He’ll like that. Right. Got work to do.”

As did Oliver. Half an hour later, Constance went out to Reception and came back with a gangly, olive-skinned youth, whom she ushered into Treville’s office. The ongoing effort to find a third cadet was of little interest to Oliver. He only wanted to see the final result.

Porthos went out, and Constance and Oliver were the only ones left in the office. Oliver had Treville’s list on his desk, trying to find more than trivial links between the people on the list Treville had given him, and thought that he might have to resort to conducting direct interviews with them. Which would be tricky since revealing the real reason would be impossible at this point.

Treville’s office door opened. “Ah, Athos. I’d like you to meet Charles d’Artagnan. He’s applied for the cadet position.”

Athos rose, ready to offer his hand. The lad had a briefcase in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. He moved away from Treville and his expression twisted. “You’re Oliver Delafere? _Le vicomte d’Athos_?” His English was good, but his accent strongly French.

“Not any more, but—” Oliver froze as the boy pulled out a pistol and held it in front of him with both hands, aimed at Oliver’s head. “What the hell’s going on? John?”

“I don’t know. D’Artagnan, put that away. What do you think you’re doing?”

The boy never shifted his gaze from Oliver. “This man killed my father, major. And my mother died of a broken heart because of it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oliver said. “Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

“No! You killed him, and now I’m going to kill you!”

Anything else he was about to say was cut short, because with perfect aim and timing, Constance had come up behind him and swung a bloody great ledger at the boy’s head, knocking him flat. Unfortunately, his gun fired before Treville could grab it, and Oliver cursed as he felt the bullet clip his upper arm. He clasped the wound, before putting himself between the lunatic on the floor and Constance.

Treville was kneeling on him. “Good work, Constance. Athos, are you hurt?”

“It’s trivial. Do we want the police?”

“Not yet. Constance, my dear, could you fetch me some string from the mail room?”

She ran off. Oliver took the pistol from Treville and kept it trained on the boy, though this d’Artagnan appeared dazed and wasn’t resisting. At least not yet. “I have no idea who he is. Or his parents.”

“Nor do I,” Treville said, keeping a solid knee in the boy’s back and his hands firmly around his wrists. Constance returned with a ball of twine and scissors, and made short work of tying up the boy’s ankles and wrists. Treville hauled him to a sitting position.

“Explain yourself.”

D’Artagnan’s chin came up. “He killed my father. You can stop me now, but I will kill him somehow. I vowed that to my mother before she died.”

Oliver looked at Treville and shrugged. Treville shook his head. “Right. Constance, would you be kind enough to assist Athos in binding that wound? And you, my lad, need to calm down and talk to me.”

Oliver put the gun into his desk drawer and locked it before he slipped off his suit jacket, hissing at the sting. Constance fetched the first aid box, and, ignoring her boss and his boss’s captive, set about gently cutting around the shirt. “Such a shame. It’s ruined. And your lovely jacket.”

“Better them than my head.” She turned big, reproachful brown eyes on him. “Sorry. I’ve had worse.”

“Not here, though.”

“No, not here.”

Her touch was careful, and her work quick and skilful. Oliver was grateful that Porthos wasn’t there to do it instead, though Aramis had a light touch too. Constance was a perfectly adequate replacement.

When she had cleaned the wound, sprinkled it with sulfa powder, and bound it neatly, Oliver put his damaged jacket back on and went to the lavatory to wash his hands. When he returned, d’Artagnan—who had not said another word—was now in a chair, being held there by Treville’s firm hands.

Oliver dragged his own chair over and sat in front of the boy. “I’ve never met anyone called d’Artagnan.”

“Liar. You made friends with my father, then you betrayed him to the Germans. He died under torture. My mother and I barely escaped with our lives.”

“Where was this?”

“South-west France. We lived in Lupiac. You pretended you were helping the resistance.”

“I never worked in France during the war. I was based in England, and in Belgium and Austria for a little while.”

For the first time, d’Artagnan’s sneer lost a little of its certainty. “But you told my father _your_ father was an English milord. You called yourself ‘Athos’. After the war, I searched all the English nobles. I found you. Viscount d’Athos. So, deny the truth of what I’m saying!” He lunged towards Oliver, only to be firmly yanked back and put in his seat by Treville’s strong grip. Treville grimaced at Oliver over the boy’s head. Oliver knew what he was thinking.

“I’m not calling you a liar. I’m saying you have a case of mistaken identity. I never used ‘Athos’ as a code name—why would I? It’s too close to my real one. But my brother did.”

“Then bring him to me!” D’Artagnan struggled against Treville’s grip, tears in his eyes. “He betrayed my father!”

“I can’t, lad. He’s dead. Killed as a traitor.” Constance, to the side, gasped quietly and put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry one of his victims was your father.”

“Is this true?” d’Artagnan whispered.

“Yes, it is,” Treville said. “I was Thomas Delafere’s commander during the war. I didn’t know he was using ‘Athos’ as a code name, but our agents used many names, whatever was best in their situation. He really was a double agent. He died three years ago. Executed as a traitor by another agent.” Oliver struggled to keep his expression calm. He couldn’t help noticing how huge Constance’s eyes had become.

D’Artagnan stared at Oliver, then bent his head and sobbed, “I promised my mother I would kill him for her. I swore an oath.”

“You can’t kill a dead man,” Oliver said quietly. “John, I don’t think he’s a danger any more. Though I’m not giving him back his bloody gun. Excuse my language, Constance.”

She gave him a queasy look. “Shall I cut the twine, sir?” she asked Treville.

“Yes.” He shook d’Artagnan a little. “Behave now, lad. You had your reasons, but you’ve shot a man, and I doubt that gun is licensed. Cause any more trouble and I’ll have the police around here in five minutes.”

“I won’t cause any trouble,” the boy mumbled.

Constance knelt to cut the strings around his ankles. Oliver rolled his chair back behind his desk and sat again, holding his arm, and nursing the ache in his heart. Would the damage Thomas’s treachery had caused ever end? And would Oliver ever stop grieving for the boy his brother had once been, before the war and whatever had warped him into a traitor?

A glass of spirit appeared on the desk in front of him. He looked up. “The major said you might need that,” Constance said. The office had emptied of people and he hadn’t even noticed.

“You as well, I think.” He lifted the glass and saluted her. “You did well. Bravely done.”

“I thought he wouldn’t be paying me any attention so I just did what I could.”

“Take a seat, my dear.” He pushed the glass at her, and looked around for the bottle and another glass. He poured himself a drink and returned, sitting down heavily. “I’m too old for this. Go ahead. You need it more than me.”

She sipped and made a face. “You don’t like brandy?” he asked.

“I’m not much of a drinker. I don’t mind a shandy, and I’ll drink sherry, but I don’t really drink spirits. I don’t like getting drunk.”

“I wish I was like you,” Oliver murmured. His hands were shaking.

“Does it hurt?”

“This?” He shrugged that shoulder and winced, because he shouldn’t have. “A bit. I’m sorry you had to hear all that about my brother.”

“It must have been hard on you.”

“You have no idea.” She looked down. “Or do you?”

“My husband—my late husband—went to prison for black marketeering and theft. I told him I was going to divorce him because of it. I can’t stand thieves and cheats, and I don’t care how many people were at it. It was just wrong. He.” She gripped her glass hard, then put it down as if she was afraid she would crack it. “He hung himself. In his cell. Said if I was going to leave him, he had no reason to go on.”

“My dear girl.” Oliver stared in shock. “He brought it on himself. He shouldn’t have blamed you.”

“Oh, I know that. But I still blame myself. I mean, we say for richer or poorer when we get married. I should have stood by him. Or something.” She shrugged, then picked up her brandy and took another sip, her hand trembling a little.

“My wife was the one who executed Thomas. They were lovers. That’s how she discovered what he was up to.”

She put the glass down. “Athos.” She reached over and touched his hand. “How do you bear it?”

He held up his brandy. “This helps.”

“I’m so sorry. What happened to her? Your wife? Did she die too?”

“No, no. She’s quite well, as far as I know. We...uh...parted after she killed him.”

“Why? She did what she had to do, didn’t she? There wasn’t a mistake?”

Oliver looked at her kind face. Her open, honest concern. So reasonable, so intelligent. “Every time I saw her, I saw Thomas’s face. And she wasn’t a bit sorry.”

“Why should she be? I mean, he was a traitor.”

“Yes. But he was also my brother. I might have been...unreasonable.”

“It must have been hard on her. Having to do a dirty job, and then to lose you too. I hope she’s all right now.”

Oliver squinted at her. “You are a very nice person, Constance. Kinder than I could ever be.”

She flushed. “I’m sure that’s not true.” She heard Treville’s door open and turned.

“Right, you two, take the rest of the day off. I’ll deal with the boy. He’s in a bad way and needs someone to straighten him out, and since it’s my fault that he’s like this—”

“John, it’s not your fault,” Oliver said.

Treville held up a hand. “In a manner of speaking, I mean. I’ll take him home, see what’s to be done. Constance, I’m extremely grateful to you.”

“I just did what needed to be done, sir.”

“Even so. Athos? See her home, then go home yourself. Take tomorrow off if you need it.”

“What about Aramis?”

“I’ll leave a note to let him know what’s happening, and he can drop over to see him if he likes. I’m sure Aramis can look after himself. Now, shoo, both of you.”

“Yes, boss,” Oliver said, giving him an ironic salute. Treville grunted and walked back into his office, shutting the door with unnecessary firmness.

“Can I offer you lunch, Constance?” Oliver said. “I don’t feel like going straight back to my flat—damn, my jacket.” The hole wasn’t too bad, but the blood was visible even on the black material. He took it off to look at it.

She reached for it. “It doesn’t look too bad. If you let me sponge it off, no one will notice the blood.”

“All right, but only if you have lunch with me.”

She gave him a slightly wobbly smile. “Done.”

****************

Aramis clutched instinctively at Paul’s arm when he heard the knock at his door, even though he knew it was probably Athos or Porthos. “No one knows you’re here?”

“Of course not. Are you going to answer it?”

“I’ll have to. You keep quiet.”

Paul only raised an eyebrow. “As a mouse.”

It was Porthos. Aramis stood in the doorway, not inviting him in. “How are you, mate? Still sick?”

“I’m better now. Let’s go out for a pint.”

“All right,” Porthos said, though he frowned at him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just fancy a drink, that’s all.”

Aramis grabbed his scarf and coat locked the door behind him. The last thing he wanted was Paul following him. “You missed some fun and games at the office,” Porthos said as they walked downstairs. “I went out to run an errand, and when I came back, the place was locked up and everyone had gone home for the day.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Not entirely sure. The boss left me a note to say they were closed early and that I could go home if I liked. I made a couple of reports, made sure Edward and Luke knew what was up, and legged it. I’m going to stop over at Athos’s, find out what he knows. You want to come?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Not here. In the pub.”

Aramis stood the pints for the two of them, and found a quiet corner. Porthos took a generous slurp of his beer, then set his glass down. “What’s going on with you?”

“For a start, that ghost I saw, wasn’t a ghost at all.”

Porthos listened in silence as Aramis told him about Paul’s arrival, and what had really happened five years ago, but exploded when Aramis revealed what Paul claimed to have discovered. “Bollocks! No way is the major a traitor!”

“Keep your damn voice down, for heaven’s sake.” Aramis took a pull from his pint, his claim of wanting a drink now all too real. “I don’t believe it either, but Paul does.”

“He’s just wrong. The German was wrong. Or lying.”

“Why? Why would he make it up? And it’s not a name like any other. I don’t think he misheard.”

Porthos scowled. “Still must be a mistake. I’ll tell you one thing. That boy of yours makes a move on the major, and he’s dead. You haven’t told him who you work for.”

“Give me some credit, _mon cher_. But he’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. He wanted to find me first, but how long would it take him to find a former Army officer called Treville?”

“I still don’t get why he didn’t come home and tell someone back in England. He’s still a deserter. And he left you to your fate too, don’t forget.”

“I know. He says he was injured, but that part of his story is a bit fishy. Maybe he counted on our French comrades coming to find us, though it was only luck that they thought to, and I hadn’t died before they did.” Aramis rubbed the scar on his forehead, from a wound that had bled so much the Germans mistook him for a corpse. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell Treville.”

“But what if Paul’s right?”

Porthos planted both fists on the table. “He ain’t.”

“We need to tell Athos. But I can’t leave Paul. God knows what he’ll get up to if I leave him alone.”

“I’ll tell Athos. But what are you gonna do with this bloke while you’re at work? You gonna pretend to be sick for weeks?”

“No. But maybe tomorrow. I didn’t ask for this, Porthos.”

“No, I know you didn’t. But we can’t let him wander around, and we got to let the major have a chance to defend himself. You need to tell him.”

“I will. Give me a day or two to think.”

“I can do that. If you like we can swap shifts, watching him. Since I mostly work at night, I mean.”

“That could work. Damn it.” He shook himself. “How was Athos?”

“Better. Back to normal, or what’s normal for him.” Porthos smiled, but Aramis was too worried to match it. Porthos put his hand on his shoulder. “We’ll work it out, brother. You don’t have to handle this alone.”

“Thank you. I haven’t been able to think straight since he turned up. I’m glad you came around.”

“I’ll talk to Athos, then if you need to get a message to me, you can ring him. He’ll know where I am, let me know.”

“Thanks.”

“Now enjoy your pint. No point in rushing home and getting all worked up again when there’s beer to drink.”

Aramis managed a smile this time. “No, indeed.”

****************

Oliver’s gratitude towards Constance was such that he briefly considered taking her to Claridges for lunch, before discarding on the basis that it would embarrass her and that his jacket in its current condition might not pass muster. Instead, he took her to [Veeraswamy](http://www.veeraswamy.com/restaurant/History), since it would be an unusual experience, and he had a personal fondness for Indian food.

Fortunately, Constance took to the cuisine with gusto, and the shocks of the morning were quickly dispersed by good food, Danish lager, and excellent conversation. For a woman of no formal higher education past secondary school, Constance had a broad general knowledge—her mother had been a great reader and had encouraged her daughter to seek out books on any subject she had an interest in—and was exceptionally quick minded. While their wartime experiences were not a subject fit for public consumption, there were plenty of other things to occupy them. Constance had quite strong views on most of them. When Oliver complimented her on not backing down on a particular topic, she blushed and looked at her plate.

“I wasn’t brought up to be like this. You can imagine being the only daughter in a house full of men. I didn’t get a chance to speak up. Being married was no better. Jack—that was my husband—didn’t like women who got above themselves, and I thought keeping the peace was what a good wife did. That’s what my mother did. But then he was arrested for having stolen goods in his shop, and they found out what else he was up to. I realised keeping my mouth shut had done neither of us any good at all. Not that he appreciated me saying that. He belted me across the face and I walked out. I wasn’t going to stand for that.”

“No, of course you shouldn’t,” Oliver said, glad the miserable Jack Bonneville was dead.

“Not long after I left him, [I did that crossword in the Daily Telegraph](https://www.gadgette.com/2016/04/15/women-in-tech-history-bletchley-park/)—do you remember?” Oliver nodded. “I’ve always been good at puzzles and that kind of thing. I was recruited for Bletchley after that. That’s where I learned I needed to speak up for myself. All those clever people. I didn’t want anyone walking over me again.”

“Absolutely not. And so here you are.”

“Here I am. Second day on the job and already someone’s tried to kill one of my co-workers.”

“It’s not normally this exciting, I promise.”

“I don’t mind. What will happen to the boy?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “All we know is that he’s an orphan. Where he’s living, what he’s trained to do, I have no idea.”

“I feel so sorry for him. It must have taken a lot of courage to pursue you and confront you. He can’t have expected to get away.”

“I don’t suppose he expected to. Or cared what happened after.”

“And now his life’s purpose is gone. I hope the major can stop him doing something stupid.”

“Treville is very good with people,” Oliver said, smiling a little. “Nervy, lost young men are a something of a speciality for him.”

She shared a flat with a girlfriend in Fulham, so Oliver went with her and saw her safely inside before taking the taxi back to Chelsea. He spotted Porthos walking along the King’s Road, and instructed the driver to slow down. “Can I offer you a lift?”

Porthos waved. “I was just headed your way.”

“Hop in then.”

Two minutes later, they were at Oliver’s building and Oliver paid the driver. Porthos was far from his usual cheerful self, so Oliver wasted no time in getting them upstairs and letting them into his flat. “What did Treville tell you in his note?”

“Uh, not much. Just that he needed to close the office early. Listen, I have something important to talk to you about. Concerning Aramis.”

Oliver had been about to offer brandy or a whisky, but changed direction and headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on. “What’s happened? Is he sicker than we thought?”

“He’s not sick at all. But a former comrade of his, Paul Marsac—he was in that team of Aramis’s they lost—has turned up out of the blue and landed on his doorstep.”

Oliver turned to face his friend. “Aramis was the only survivor of that ambush, and only by the skin of his teeth.”

“Turns out Marsac ran and hid. Deserted,” he said flatly.

“Does he want Aramis to hide him?”

“No. Not as such. He claims the team was betrayed by a British officer, and the German officer in charge of the ambush says the information came from someone called Treville.”

Oliver froze. “No. Impossible.”

“That’s what I told him. Aramis is a mess. He doesn’t know whether to believe this bloke, and he doesn’t know if he can trust Treville now. I mean, I say he can, but then look at you and your brother.”

Oliver winced. “Quite. Does he have a plan?”

“Hide until something changes. Not much of a plan.”

“It’s not. We have to talk to Treville.”

Porthos nodded. “If there was any chance this Marsac was telling the truth, I wouldn’t agree. But there’s no bloody chance. Can we go over to his house tonight? The sooner we put this to him, the better.”

“Ah, not tonight. There’s a complicating factor.”

As Oliver made the tea, he told his friend about the young man who’d turned up to kill him under the pretext of applying for a cadet position. “Bloody hell. He wants to kill you, this Marsac wants to kill Treville. Who’s out there looking to put a bullet in me or Aramis, eh?”

“People only hold grudges against officers, Porthos.” Oliver tried to sound light, but it was hardly a subject for humour.

“Constance all right?”

“Oh yes. Better than me,” he said, lifting his injured shoulder. “She’s a very brave, intelligent woman.”

“She’s a great girl, for sure. Remind me to thank her for saving your life.

Oliver poured out tea in two mugs—like his friends, he had no patience for fiddling with tea sets in his private residence. He gave one to Porthos and waved him through to the living room. “We need to neutralise Marsac.”

“A bullet through the head works for me.”

“Porthos. If he’s a deserter, we could hand him over to the military authorities. Sticks in my throat though, if there’s any chance he was suffering from shell shock.”

Porthos made a face. “Could be. I don’t know the bloke at all. I don’t know how well Aramis knew him. You know what it was like. Fast friendships with people you fight alongside, then you never see them again.”

“I should speak to him. Perhaps I should do that tonight, since I can’t go to Treville.”

“I think that’s a good idea. But Aramis hasn’t told him who he works for.”

“That’s all right. I can play the boss.”

“You do own the place, after all.”

Oliver shook his head. “Not a word about that to him, or Constance, you hear? That is strictly a private matter for us four to know. Finish your tea. Have you had lunch?”

He hadn’t, so Oliver gave him some bread and cheese, then changed his clothes, throwing the shirt in the laundry basket to be washed and mended, and leaving the jacket to decide upon later. Constance’s bandaging was sound, so there was no need to change that.

Porthos was ready to go, so they went downstairs and hailed a taxi on the street. “Are you armed?” Oliver asked quietly.

Porthos patted his leg to indicate he had his knife. “You?”

“No.”

“Expecting trouble?”

“Always.”

Porthos nodded.

****************

D’Artagnan barely said a word to Treville as they left the office and took a taxi to Hammersmith. It transpired that the lad was carrying almost all his worldly possessions with him in his father’s old briefcase and a battered suitcase he’d left in reception, and had about a pound’s worth of coins as his only money. It wasn’t only guilt which made Treville take pity on him and bring him home to look after him. It wasn’t right that a young man like this should be reduced to this through no fault of his own. His sad brown eyes and misery lines around his mouth would move a harder man than Treville to mercy.

The lad stirred once they drew up to the house. “You own this?”

“It was my parents’.” Treville paid the driver and motioned the lad towards the front door. “Come along.”

Agnes and her boy were in the kitchen. “Agnes, this is Charles. Charles, Agnes is my housekeeper, and this is Henry, her son.”

Charles dropped to one knee. “Hello, Henry.” The little boy smiled shyly. “Is that your horse? Do you want to show me?”

Amazed that a child could bring such a quick and cheerful response from his guest, Treville shook his head. “Agnes, Charles will be staying for a few days, so we can put him in the small bedroom.”

“Of course, sir. Will you be wanting lunch today?’

“Yes, please. Nothing elaborate. I knew you wouldn’t be ready for us. Bread and cheese if you have it. Oh, and tea.”

Since d’Artagnan was still occupied chatting to Henry, Treville took his bag up to the bedroom, and changed out of his jacket and tie. He wondered whether any of his old clothes would fit d’Artagnan—probably not, since he was so tall, but there were some things of his father’s which might do.

He took the lad into the dining room to eat, so he could talk to him privately. He waited until d’Artagnan had had a chance to swallow some bread, and slurp some tea. “So, Charles. After you killed Athos, what did you plan to do with your life.”

“Nothing.” The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I planned to hand myself over to the police, and I expected to hang.”

“And now?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t, as such. But I hate waste, and unless you lied on your application, you have skills which we could use. Are you interested at all in the job you applied for?”

D’Artagnan looked up then. “I only applied—”

“Yes, I know. But it’s a real position, and we really do need a cadet. Obviously you’re resourceful and brave. What other skills do you have?”

The boy shrugged. “Nothing, really. I’m ordinary.”

“Tell me what happened to your father, and afterwards.”

D’Artagnan’s parents had been part of the Resistance, but his half-English mother, Juliette, had a passive role while she kept her son safe. His father, Alexandre, was active passing intelligence to the Allies. His cell had accepted help to carry out sabotage from SOE operative Thomas Delafere, then using the code name ‘Athos’ (unbeknownst to Treville). Thomas had even stayed in the d’Artagnan house, had become friendly with all the family, but especially with Alexandre who had behaved like a father figure to the young agent. That friendship was brutally betrayed when Thomas led the Gestapo to pick up all of the cell, and d’Artagnan and his mother only escaped by great good luck and the help of other Resistance members.

They succeeded in reaching Switzerland, and were interned. Word reached them a year later from other refugees that Alexandre had died under questioning and that Thomas had been the one to betray them. “ _Maman_ died that night,” d’Artagnan said. “Her heart, the doctor said.”

“I’m so sorry,” Treville murmured.

“I swore to her as she lay dying I would kill this ‘Athos’. I swore on her grave, and on the memory of my father.”

“He died a traitor’s death,” Treville said. “That, at least, was justice.”

“Yes. But now I have no reason to keep living.”

“And is that why your father gave his life? Is this what your mother wanted when she kept you alive all that time, when your French friends helped you escape? You think that they only saved you so you could give up?”

D’Artagnan glared. “What am I supposed to do? I have no one. No family, no friends left. I am alone in the world. I was supposed to run the family farm. There’s nothing left of it now.”

“Then you have to start again, lad. I can offer you somewhere to live for a while, and if you don’t want the job I can offer, you have a chance to look for another. But it would be a sad way to honour the bravery of your parents to throw away your life because you can’t imagine going on.”

D’Artagnan’s jaw worked as his eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to do this for them. It was all I had left to give.”

“It’s not. Would it help to meet the person who killed Thomas Delafere?”

“They live?”

“They do. And like you, they had to make their lives from scratch after losing everything that once meant everything to them. Perhaps it would help.”

The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “All right. Do I have to decide about the job now?”

“No. For now, I think you should eat, rest, and take time to think. You’ve had a shock today, and given all of us one. You’re safe here, I promise.”

The boy nodded. Treville left him to finish his lunch, and went to the living room, where he moved his mother’s ugly vase into the window.


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver let Porthos knock on Aramis’s door, and when it opened, Porthos said, “Boss wanted to speak to you about your friend.”

Quick-witted as he was, Aramis needed no more hint than that. “Of course, my lord, come in,” he said to Oliver without the smallest ironic twist to his mouth.

Marsac was sitting on Aramis’s only armchair. The man was thin and shabby, with a less than open countenance.  Something about him sent off alarms in Oliver’s brain, but that might be no more than knowing the man was a deserter.

Aramis did the introductions. “Lord Delafere, this is my friend, Paul Marsac.”

“I won’t say it’s nice to meet you, Marsac,” Oliver drawled as offensively as he could. “I don’t care for deserters.”

Predictably, Marsac rose, fury in his expression, but Porthos shoved him back into the chair. “Sit down, mate.”

“I’m not a deserter. Not really.”

“Oh yes? How else do you describe someone who leaves his dead and injured colleagues and runs away from the battle? Can you explain yourself?”

“If you know that much, you know why I ran, my lord.” He said the last words as if they were a curse. Aramis, to his side, was showing nothing much but strain and exhaustion in his expression, thank God.

Oliver pulled up the only kitchen chair and sat down. “I heard some nonsense about your looking for a traitor. In your position, there’s no earthly reason why you would not return to base and report your concerns. Your commander wasn’t the man you suspected of betraying you, was he?”

“I didn’t know how far the rot went.”

Oliver glanced at Aramis, still stone-faced. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know, my lord. I barely survived the ambush, as you know.”

“Quite. So, Marsac, you claim a German captain said an English officer called Treville betrayed you. How would he know the real name of the traitor?”

“He said he found out after his promotion. Their contact they called ‘the cardinal’, and the man told him personally who the English traitor was.”

“And that strikes you as plausible, does it?”

“I’m telling you what he told me,” Marsac said, fury building in his expression again. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m calling you a deserter and an untrustworthy comrade. The name you had was ‘Treville’, correct?” Marsac nodded. “I only know of one officer called Treville. A general who did have some knowledge of covert French operations.” Aramis jerked a little. He hadn’t known this, nor had Porthos. No reason why they would. “He died just before the end of the war. If he’s your traitor, then you may as well have stayed in South America.”

Marsac stared. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Why would I bother to lie to protect a dead man? I don’t know if General Treville was a traitor. I’m sorry if he was, but the war is over, and you can’t bring the dead back to life. So now that you know that, what are your plans? Are you going to surrender to the authorities?”

Marsac shuddered, then looked at Aramis. “Are you going to hand me over?”

Aramis pleaded with Oliver, using his eyes. “Is that really necessary, my lord?”

“Depends on whether this gent is planning to threaten any more English citizens and make a damned nuisance of himself. Where are you living, Marsac?”

“Nowhere,” he mumbled.

“Well you can’t stay here. There’s not enough room to hang a cat. Aramis, Porthos has more space, and he’s offered to put up Marsac for a couple of days while he sorts out somewhere to live.” Oliver stared intently at his friend, willing him to understand there was a good reason for this.

Fortunately, he did. “Yes, good idea. Marsac, Porthos has a proper bedroom and a couch. I don’t have the space here. And you’ll be safe with him.”

“Provided he doesn’t mess me about,” Porthos said, added a touch of a growl.

Marsac looked unsure. “Oh, come now, man. Are you going to be picky about charity now?” Oliver said with deliberate impatience. “Aramis doesn’t have the slightest obligation to host you, since you were so kind as to leave him for dead. Go with Porthos, and I’ll do my best to find you work. Or a ticket back to South America, if you prefer.”

“I...I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Then make up your mind and Porthos can let me know.” Oliver opened his wallet and handed Porthos five ten-bob notes. “That should take care of expenses for now. Ring me if you need more. And we’ll have to do something about his clothes.”

“I can take care of that,” Porthos said.

“Excellent. Well, Marsac? Take your leave and Aramis will speak to Porthos tomorrow about you.”

“You let your employer take charge of your life like this?” Marsac demanded of Aramis as he got to his feet.

“I do when it comes to matters of national security. He’s still in with that crowd,” Aramis said. “Go on. You’ll be fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I promise.”

“All right.” Marsac picked up the small army backpack sitting next to the chair, and that was as much as he needed to collect, apparently. “Shall we go then?” he said to Porthos.

Once the two of them had left, Aramis rounded on Oliver. “How long do you think that lie will hold?”

“What lie?”

“About ‘General’ Treville?”

“That wasn’t a lie. The only lie was saying there was only one officer with that name. Major Treville’s father was a general, and did have oversight on the French operations. I doubt he betrayed anyone, but he’s dead, and so can’t be hurt by your lunatic chum.”

Aramis ran his hand through his hair. “This isn’t a permanent solution, you realise.”

“Of course not. But for now, I want you to come to my place tonight, and we’ll travel to the office together in the morning, just in case your friend decides to trail you to see where you work. We’ll talk to Treville in the morning.”

“Why can’t we talk to him tonight?”

Oliver sighed. “I’ll explain everything to you when we get back to mine.”

****************

Startled as he had been by Athos and Porthos’s sudden arrival at his home, Aramis was nothing but grateful for the chance to escape the situation and stay with Athos. When he learned what had transpired in his absence, he was even more grateful.

“That little shit,” he muttered as Athos submitted to him checking the bullet graze. “How did he get a gun?”

“I have no idea but they’re not exactly hard to come by. Don’t be too hard on him. He’s only a boy. Not like....”

“Marsac. Yes, I realise.” Aramis could see no reason why Athos should go to a doctor—the bullet’s gouge was too wide to stitch, the injury was clean and no longer bleeding. He bound it with clean bandages and warned Athos to watch out for any signs of infection, which earned him an eye roll as Athos put his shirt back on.

“Did you eat lunch?” Athos asked.

“I bought a couple of pies and a bottle of beer.”

“Right. Well, Constance and I had a large lunch—”

“Constance?”

“Yes. You remember? Bright young woman, brunette, saved my bloody life today?”

“Yes,” Aramis said, glowering at his irritating friend. “I know who she is. Why were you eating lunch with her?”

“Because she saved my life and was a little shaken up. The same reason that I’m going to take you to the pub later and feed you. But perhaps you might like a nap.”

“I would, but I’m too worked up to sleep. Talk to me about this damn list of yours. It’s boring enough to knock me out.”

It didn’t, in fact, but with a bellyful of hot food and stout, and in a wide unshared bed, Aramis slept better than he had the night before with Marsac shifting restlessly on the other side of a narrow cot, and worrying about what his unwanted guest had told him about his friend and boss.

Despite that, and Athos’s calm demeanour about the whole thing, Aramis wasn’t sure it was right to bring it up to Treville at the office. “The worst he can do is shout about it,” Athos said, untroubled by the prospect.

It was by no means certain Treville would even come to the office that day, but they managed to beat him in by no more than a minute. Athos was talking to Constance, asking how she’d slept, when Treville walked in. “Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Treville said, nodding at Aramis.

“John, we need a word with you,” Athos said. “An urgent one.”

“Come in then. Constance, hold my calls, please, and I’d like to speak to you once I’m finished with these two.”

Treville beckoned them to sit. “How’s the arm?” he asked Athos.

“Annoying but otherwise of no consequence,” Athos said.

“And are you over your illness?” Treville asked Aramis.

“I wasn’t sick,” Aramis said. Treville frowned. “Sir, I had a visitor the night before last.”

Athos allowed him to relate what Marsac had done and said about the ill-fated mission in 1943 on the Belgian border, while Treville sat with stony expression, listening in silence. When Aramis was done, he still didn’t speak.

“I called around to Aramis’s yesterday afternoon, with Porthos. I told the fellow that I only knew one officer called Treville, and that he was dead.” Treville sat up a little straighter at Athos’s words. “I dispatched him to Porthos’s for Porthos to mind him, and took this one home to my place. But we have a problem, insofar as he might discover your existence, and even if he doesn’t, we need him away from Aramis permanently. He’s a loose cannon.”

“A lot of them about at the moment,” Treville said. He saw Aramis looking at him. “There’s not a jot of truth in his allegation, I hope you realise.”

“I know that, sir. Is it possible your father—”

“How dare you?” Treville narrowed his eyes at Aramis. “The man can’t defend himself now he’s dead, yet you’re happy to defame a man who served this country since before your bloody _father_ was born?”

“I’m sorry. I had to ask.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Athos broke up the staring match. “So, what should we do with Marsac?”

“Send him back to Ecuador. Or the devil. I don’t care. I don’t see why we’re responsible for him. If he feels he’s owed something, he can apply to the Home Office. I’m sure they’ll be sympathetic to a deserter and coward.”

Aramis felt nausea wash over him. “He’s not a coward,” he said with a tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. “Up to that moment, he fought as hard and bravely as any man, including me.”

“Still a deserter, and therefore of no interest to me. Was there something else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I think you’ll find there’s work for you to do after your day’s leave.”

“Yes.”

Aramis walked out on stiff legs, and went to the lavatory where he promptly threw up that morning’s breakfast. Before he’d come into the office, he’d been certain Treville had nothing to hide.

Now Aramis was sure he did.

****************

“Yes, Athos?” Treville said.

“You didn’t have to be quite that rough with him,” Athos murmured. “He still has nightmares over that ambush. And Marsac completely blindsided him.”

“There’s no excuse for impugning the good name of my father. Or of me, for that matter. What did you want beside that?”

“What’s happening with the boy?”

For a moment, and so angry was he over Aramis’s question, Treville could not recall in the slightest what his friend was talking about. “Oh. The boy. He’s staying with me. I’ve offered him the cadetship if he wants it. He has all the necessary skills and a few more that are desirable.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “And we’re quite certain he won’t take another pop at me, are we?”

“Don’t be a fool, Athos. He’s lost, alone, and a poor miserable orphan because of your brother and the Germans. The least we can do is offer him a fresh start.”

“If you’re quite sure, I have no objections. But we do have to dispose of this Marsac. I know Aramis. He’ll feel obliged to look after the bastard and the man is trouble. I don’t want him acting as an anchor around Aramis’s neck.”

“What do you suggest?” Treville was already sick of the subject, but Athos was right.

“Let Porthos keep him in protective custody until I purchase a one-way ticket back to South America, and send him away with a warning that should he darken these shores again, the proper authorities will be alerted.”

Treville nodded. “Fine. Arrange it.”

“John, even though this German must have had the wrong name, that someone betrayed that team is far from impossible. Should we not alert someone to that? MI6, perhaps?”

“To what purpose? The man probably died in the war, if he even exists, and the whole matter is now close to being ancient history. Let the dead bury the dead. We have more than enough to do to look after the living.”

“Very well.”

Treville wished Athos would just bugger off, but he kept his temper in check. “Is Constance all right after yesterday?”

“She is, fortunately. Shame you’ve offered the cadetship to the boy. She would be an excellent investigator.”

“Oh? Something to bear in mind for the future then. Athos, I don’t want to rush you, but I do have things to do.”

Athos stood. “Of course. I’ll deal with the other matter.”

“Thank you. Send Constance in, would you please?”

And with any luck, once the next tramp steamer left for South America, this Marsac and his filthy lies would be no one’s problem but his own.

****************

Oliver asked Constance to step through to the major’s office, then went over to Aramis’s desk. “You look bloody awful.”

Aramis looked up at him with bleary eyes. “Now I really am sick.”

“If you need to go home, I can cover for you.”

“No, no...but a cup of tea would be nice.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

The drink and an opportunity to gently flirt with Constance seemed to restore Aramis’s spirits, though he flinched every time Treville’s door opened and closed. Now Oliver wished he hadn’t arranged for Porthos to stay away from the office for a couple of days.

He had new clients to contact, so he made discreet phone calls and set up meetings for the following day. He put his hand in his pocket at one point and his fingers brushed the list.

The damnable list.

“Constance, you said you were good with puzzles?”

“Yes, I am,” she said, coming over to his desk. “Why, do you want a crossword filled out?”

“Cheeky woman. No, not a crossword. Bring a chair and have a look at this.” Over at his desk, Aramis glanced over curiously, then went back to whatever he was working on.

When Constance was sat beside him, Oliver showed her the piece of paper. “These are all people who we believe have had compromised material collected against them. But none of them are particularly rich, or influential. And none of them, as yet, have had a demand made on them. Can you think of a reason why anyone would be interested in them?”

Against the names, Oliver—and last night, Aramis—had written notes about their positions, theories on their possible importance and so on. He waited patiently while Constance read through the names, and gave her time to think.

At last she set the paper down. “Do you play chess?”

“Yes, of course.”

“If these people were pieces on a board, which other piece would have a clear run at the king?”

Oliver stared at her, amazed it hadn’t occurred to him. “I could kiss you.” She went red. “Metaphorically, I mean.”

“Do you know what the piece is?”

“No, and I don’t know who holds the king, but that has to be it. It’s not individually. It’s what happens if you pull all of these men out of the game more or less at once. Excuse me. No, actually, come in. You deserve credit.”

He knocked on Treville’s door. “Not now, Athos.”

“John, it’s important.”

Hearing no reply, Oliver opened the door a crack. Whatever Treville was about to bark at him in annoyance, he swallowed when he saw Constance behind him.

“What is it?”

“Constance has cracked the list, I think. We need to think of it as a clear run for someone, to somewhere, once all these pieces—I mean, people—are out of the way. All of them.”

“Like pieces on a chessboard,” Constance added diffidently.

Treville stared, and his glower disappeared. “Of course. But who is the someone?”

“And what is the king? The prize?”

“You don’t know?”

“Give us a chance,” Oliver murmured. Constance smiled nervously.

“Well, get on with it, the pair of you. Constance, you’re officially seconded to this task. While doing all your other ones, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, grinning outright now.

“Now leave me be. I really do have work to do. And Athos, don’t forget the other matter.”

“No, I won’t.”

Outside, Aramis wanted to know what was going on, and Oliver told him. Aramis slapped his forehead. “We’re getting old, _mon ami_.”

“Speak for yourself, _mon_ _vieux_. Constance, are you busy next Wednesday evening? Because there is someone I very much want you to meet.”

She wasn’t, and so Oliver booked her for dinner at the Larroques. But before he got carried away, he needed to book blasted Marsac’s ticket out of the country and out of their lives. A couple of phone calls later, and the menace was safely booked on a steamer whose first port of call in South America was Cartagena. Marsac could do as he pleased after that.

Aramis cornered him in the lavatory later that morning. “I need to talk to you. Could we have lunch together?”

His friend was clearly still distressed. “I wanted to invite Constance as a thank you. Ah, but perhaps we could linger after she returns to the office?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Perhaps you should head back to my flat after that.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ve booked his passage back to South America. You won’t have to worry about him after that.”

Aramis’s smile was gruesome. “Thanks.”

Never had Oliver wished for the ability to read minds more than in that moment.

****************

Constance was the one glimmer of light in Aramis’s already dreadful day. Athos might have invited her in gratitude, but his introverted friend bloomed in her presence, and Aramis’s own mood lifted with her cheerfulness. He teased her a little for being the office protectress, and suggested she should wear a sword and pistol to stand guard over the six weak men she worked with.

“If I had a sword, I’d be tempted to spank you with it,” she answered, and the grin on Athos’s face was worth annoying her a little over.

Once she left, the brief lift in Aramis’s mood disappeared. Athos put a half pint of IPA in front of him, while lifting a whisky and water to his lips. When he set it down, he frowned at Aramis. “So, what’s on your mind?”

“The major is lying, Athos. There was no need for him to be so angry about what I said. I meant nothing by it, and he knew it.”

“Come on, Aramis. It’s his father. I know he still misses him, and Marsac’s slander is appalling.”

“I’m telling you, Treville is more defensive than it warrants.”

“So? Suppose it’s true. Suppose the old man was a filthy traitor. It’s over. He’s dead. His son is upright and honest, and that’s who we deal with. Leave it be.”

“We don’t know the intermediary is dead.”

Athos considered, his eyes kind but giving no clue to his thoughts. “Before Marsac arrived, you weren’t at peace exactly over the ambush, but you accepted it as part of war. Does it change things so much if your comrades’ deaths were caused by treachery?”

“I want justice.”

“Then why aren’t you telling the authorities about Marsac? Because his reasons for not returning are nonsensical. He ran, he was a coward. And who knows what difference he might have made to the fight if he’d come back and told people what he knew _then_? Now? Nothing can be changed. Do you want my advice, _mon ami_?” Aramis nodded. “Let it go. Like d’Artagnan will have to, now he knows the man responsible for his father’s death is dead.”

Aramis lifted his beer. “You do realise the irony of such words coming from you, my dear friend.”

“Yes, I do. But you aren’t me. You aren’t crippled by an entirely English upbringing, nor by the expectations of class. For your own sake, move on. Marsac is the past. He’s a failure of his own making. John Treville is the finest man I know. I _know_ him.”

“You’re right.” He heaved a sigh. “I’m just off balance because of Marsac. Damn him. I mourned him cleanly. Now I’ll always know he abandoned me.”

“That’s his punishment. Don’t let it be yours. Now, _mon vieux_ , shall I send you home?”

“Please don’t. I feel better.”

Athos scanned his face. “Very well. But I won’t hesitate to bully you into leaving if you need to, even if I have to get Treville to make you.”

“Mercy, please.”

Athos smiled. “Finish your beer, and then we can stagger back together.”

****************

By the following day, Treville was on a more even keel. Athos had booked the wretched Marsac a passage away from England, Aramis looked less nervy and less likely to come out with more ridiculous slanders, and Porthos came into the office mid-morning. “I thought you were keeping an eye on the man,” Treville said.

“Eh, he wanted to buy some kit for the journey. Athos gave me a couple of quid for him, so I handed it over and told him to get what he needed from the second-hand markets. I don’t need to babysit him while he’s buying underwear.”

“Perhaps not. He’s definitely leaving then.”

“I think he’s looking forward to it. Time to move on, he said.”

“Good. Well, if you’re back on duty, we have work for you. Constance? Please give Porthos that list of retrievals I had you draw up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Athos came to his office an hour later. “How are you today, John?”

“Busy. Did you want something?”

“Is the lad going to take the job or not? If not, we really do need another set of hands.”

“He’s still thinking about it. I think he will, but I don’t want to push. He’s settled down though. I’ll speak to him at supper, see if I can nudge him. Aramis seems...better.”

Athos smiled wryly. “A couple of good nights’ sleep, a chance to talk, some company, always works wonders with him.”

“Excellent. Don’t let me keep you.”

Athos backed out of the office and shut the door. Treville had to give the man credit—even though it was his money that set this place up and had paid rent, bills, and salaries while they struggled to establish themselves, Athos had never once pulled rank on him. In fact, he’d never behaved any differently towards Treville than he had as a captain during the war. Many men would not have done so, in the same circumstances.

He hadn’t heard from Anne, though he’d barely given her a chance to. She might be waiting for him to turn up at the pub, though, so that evening, after supper, he invited d’Artagnan to join him at [The Cross Keys](https://whatpub.com/pubs/WLD/15988/cross-keys-hammersmith). D’Artagnan’s opinion of British beer was low, and British wine was not to be spoken of, but Treville ordered him a ginger ale and let him get on with it, while he himself enjoyed a pint of Chiswick Bitter. If the French were unable to appreciate [Fuller’s Brewery](https://www.fullers.co.uk/)’s finest output, that was no skin off his nose.

He finished his pint, while d’Artagnan was still making faces into his drink. “Not to your taste?”

“I wouldn’t give it to a pig.”

Treville smiled. “Perhaps a glass of water, then.”

“I don’t need anything, sir. Do you know that woman?”

Treville looked up and saw who was coming over. _Anne_. “Is now inconvenient?” she asked

“No, not at all. But we should remove to my house, if you have the time.”

She arched an elegantly shaped brow. “I have a couple of hours. Who’s this?”

“Anne, this is Charles. Charles, Anne.”

Charles offered his hand. _“Enchanté, madame.”_

_“Vous êtes francaises, n’est-ce pas?”_

_“Oui, madame. Vous aussi?”_

_“Oui, d_ _’_ _accord._ John?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Come on, Charles.”

Outside the pub, he set a quick pace to lessen the risk of Anne being seen with him. But he had time and breath to quickly tell her that Charles’s father was one of Thomas’s victims, and that he thought the two of them should talk.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I know what I’m doing. Humour me?”

“You know I don’t handle children well.”

“ _Excusez-moi?_ ” Charles said, his dark eyebrows lowering in anger. “I am not a child.”

“No, you’re not. Anne, be nice.”

“When have you ever known me to be that?”

Treville snorted. “Make an effort. Please?”

“If I must.”

He let them into the house, and put the two of them in the living room by the fire. “Anne, would you like a drink?”

“Brandy, please. Do you really expect me to comfort him?”

“No. I’d like you to listen, and answer his questions.” He poured her a drink. “Behave. Both of you.”

He retreated to the kitchen. He should be able to hear if violence broke out.

Twenty minutes later, someone knocked on the door. He’d lay money on it being Aramis, damn it. Athos would have called first. And Porthos should be working.

He opened the door and found a shabby stranger. “Can I help you?”

“Are you John Treville? Major Treville?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

The man produced a pistol and pointed it at his face. “I’m Paul Marsac. You’re a traitor and I’m here to execute you.”

Treville slammed the door as Marsac threw himself forward, but his shoving prevented Treville from throwing the lock. He ran down the hall for the study where he kept his own pistol.

Marsac fired at him, but the shot went wild. Upstairs, Agnes screamed, but sensibly didn’t come out of her room to investigate. Treville prayed she would keep Henry and herself safe behind a locked door.

Unfortunately, d’Artagnan was not so sensible, stepping into the hallway right in front of Marsac and staring in shock at him. “ _Monsieur Treville_!”

Marsac grabbed the foolish boy, and forced his arm up behind his back, holding the pistol to his head. “I’ll trade you, Treville. Your life for this kid.”

Treville stopped and put his hands in the air. “Let him go, Marsac. I surrender. Don’t hurt him. He’s not your enemy.”

Marsac released Charles’s arm and pushed him aside. He turned the pistol towards Treville. “Any last words, you bastard?”

“How about....” Marsac’s head whipped around and Anne shot him neatly in the forehead. He dropped, and she lowered her own weapon. “If you want to shoot someone, shoot them. God, such drama. Get up, Charles. Well done.”

The boy scrambled to his feet. Treville realised Anne had sent him out to be a decoy. “You could have got him killed.”

“Not a chance. Obsessives like this always focus on their object of desire. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Yes, thank you.” Treville heaved a sigh, trying to get his breath back under control. “The neighbours will have called the police.”

“John, I can’t be found here.”

“No. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.” He stepped over the body, and took her arm. “Just go,” he said, squeezing her arm affectionately. “And thank you.”

“John? Are you all right?”

Athos’s voice came from the front door, and Athos stepped into the hall, Aramis at his heels. “John, are you...Anne, what the hell are you doing here?” Athos came to a halt and glared murderously at his spouse.

“Saving your friend’s life,” she said coolly.

Aramis stared at the body on the ground. “What happened?

Anne looked at him as if he was simple. “I shot him.”

“Is he dead?” Aramis dropped to his knees beside the body.

“I don’t shoot people in the head to annoy them.”

While Aramis made the sign of the cross over the dead man, Anne turned to face her husband. “Why are you even here?” Athos demanded.

Treville stepped in front of Anne, ready to protect her from any excess of emotion either man might be about to show. “I invited her here to talk to d’Artagnan, Athos. I thought it would help them both.”

“You never said I was to be the subject of your ill-advised psychotherapy, John.”

Treville rolled his eyes. “Athos, how did you know to come? Or is this coincidence?”

Athos was still glaring at Anne as he answered. “Porthos rang to say Marsac hadn’t come back, and that he’d dropped over to Aramis’s flat and found the front door lock picked and his gun safe emptied. I realised what Marsac was up to and came over as quickly as possible. I called, but Agnes said you were out at the pub.”

“Is anyone going to tell me who this Marsac is and why he wanted you dead?”

Athos answered his wife before Treville did. “He got it into his head that Treville had betrayed his team during the war. The same team Aramis was in, the one that was ambushed.” Anne nodded. She’d been back in England when Aramis was sent back, badly wounded. “The man was a lunatic, that’s all.”

Treville relaxed. That was all Anne needed to know. He turned to her. “You should go,” he said quietly. She turned to him. “You can finish talking to Charles another time.”

“Oh, have you told him how you killed Thomas yet?” Athos bit out. “I’m sure that’s a treat for the lad to anticipate.”

She didn’t even bother to look at her husband. “I come and go as I damn well please, Oliver.” Treville squeezed her arm in support.

“That doesn’t mean you should be come and going _here_ ,” Athos snapped.

She sneered at him over Treville’s shoulder. “Just because you find me repulsive, husband, doesn’t mean every man does.”

“You keep your bloody hands off him.”

“Too late,” she said, blowing him a kiss.

Treville hissed in a breath, turned and found Aramis restraining his friend who looked ready to kill...someone. “Knock it off,” Treville snapped at Athos. “Anne, do you want me to call you a taxi?”

“No. The police will be on their way. I’ll walk towards the station. _Au revoir, Charles._ ”

Charles, who had been leaning against the wall, stepped forward. “ _Au revoir, madame. Ces Anglais, ils sont tous fous_.”

“ _D_ _’_ _accord_ ,” Anne said, apparently unruffled. She stepped past her furious spouse, and Treville followed her, sparing only one narrow-eyed glance at his two friends.

On the stairs, she kissed his cheek. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“Obviously, she said, dismissing his apology with a wave. “You really should start putting bromide in his tea.”

“It’s been a difficult few days,” Treville said. “Thank you for talking to Charles.”

“He’s pretty. And sweet. If you don’t want him, I could use him.”

“Anne.”

“Joking.” She smiled. “Good night.”

He watched her, sighed again, and went back inside. “You were asleep, all right?” he said to Charles. “You went to bed after the pub and when you came down, he was dead. Don’t say anything else.”

“And if they ask what I am doing here?”

“You’re our new cadet, yet to find a place to stay in London. Go put your pyjamas on, and a dressing gown. You two, behave. I’m calling the police.”

While waiting for the police, Treville went upstairs to tell a terrified Agnes what had happened. As he thought, she knew no different from what he was going to tell the police had happened.

The police accepted his story of him knowing that it was possible a crazed deserter was after him, so he’d come to the door with his fully-licensed pistol, and after a brief struggle when Marsac had already fired at him, Treville had shot him dead. Aramis and Athos backed him up by stating the simple truth, relating their movements exactly as they had happened.

D’Artagnan showed he had a definite talent for acting, playing the wide-eyed and horrified house guest who’d come downstairs to find his host shocked at having to kill a man who had burst into his home, threatening the lives of four innocent people.

The police were sympathetic, and as Treville suspected, not too bothered to learn a deserter and would-be murderer had found justice. However, the formalities had to be followed, and the body removed by the coroner, so it was after midnight before Treville was able to go to send Athos and Aramis away and go to bed. Porthos had rung, worried out of his mind that his boss and maybe his friends were all murdered, so Treville was able to reassure him, and at least one of their circle could rest easy that night.

Athos hadn’t spoken a word to him directly since Anne left, and the unwanted revelation about her relationship with his former superior hung in the air like Damocles’ sword. Treville had neither the energy nor will to deal with it tonight.

He sent Charles to bed, then stood with folded arms in front of the two men. “Athos, will you be in tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” Athos said coldly.

“I suggest you don’t, unless you’ve calmed down. We’ll talk about this when you have.”

Athos turned on his heel and walked out of the house. Aramis gave Treville a despairing look. “This is a mess, boss.”

“Only if we let it become one. Look after him. And let Porthos look after you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He firmly locked the front door, and promised himself he would shoot anyone who knocked on it in the next twelve hours, even if it was Athos.

Especially if it was Athos.

****************

“Are you all right?” Aramis asked as they walked towards Hammersmith Tube station.

“What do you think?”

“I think you should remember what you said about letting it go.”

“She slept with Treville!”

“He slept with her too. I’m surprised you’re not angry with him.”

“Who says I’m not?” Oliver was so full of inchoate rage, fixing a precise target was beyond him.

They were fortunate enough to spot a passing taxi, and climbing onboard was an immediate relief from the cold air. Aramis was shivering, and from the depths of his own misery, Oliver managed to summon up concern for his friend. “I’m sorry about Marsac.”

“He should have gone back to South America. Now his mother will learn what really happened. I’ll need to speak to her.”

“Do you need to take that upon yourself?”

“I owe it to her. And to him. He believed his truth, even if it wasn’t true.”

Oliver grunted, having no sympathy at all for a man who’d abandoned his friend and tried to murder another. Though how much of a ‘friend’ Treville really was....

No, he couldn’t believe that. Treville had been there all through the war, a staunch support, a competent, canny officer directing some of the most difficult missions imaginable, and after Thomas....

After Anne....

Oliver didn’t want to think any more. Once they were back in the flat, he picked up the brandy and took himself to bed. Aramis didn’t say anything, but then, what was there to say?


	5. Chapter 5

When he rose, bleary-eyed and thick-headed, around ten o’clock, he found his housekeeper had been and delivered milk, eggs, and bread to his [fridge](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/8114952/Familys-fridge-is-still-going-after-63-years.html), as well as having discreetly cleaned the flat everywhere but his bedroom. There was also a note from Aramis, telling Oliver that he would deal with any client commitments, and pleading for him to drink some water when he got up.

Oliver did so, though he hadn’t in fact drunk that much. He’d exhausted himself with anger and misery, and more or less cried himself to sleep—something he would never admit to anyone. After a bath, he felt refreshed enough to call the office and speak to Constance. “I won’t be in today,” he told her. “Is everything all right?”

“The boss isn’t in either. Aramis told me you wouldn’t be. Are you all right?”

“No worse than usual. Should I come in, do you think? Since the major’s not there?”

“Hold on.” She put her hand over the receiver for a few moments. “No. Aramis is out, Porthos says it’s all under control, and Edward and Luke have plenty to do. Did something happen, Athos? You sound unhappy.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Is there anything I can do?”

Her kindness almost made him blurt out his sorrows, just to have her soothe them. Which was jolly pathetic of him. “I’m all right. Just out of sorts, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She was probably thinking he was being indulgent, which he was. “I’ll see you next week then.”

“Yes, of course.” Three days suddenly seemed a long time without seeing her. Oliver dismissed such foolish thoughts. “I hope you enjoy your weekend.”

He rang off. He was behaving like a bloody fool. Of course, Anne could sleep with whom she wanted. So could Treville.

But why had they needed to sleep with _each other_?

He moped around the flat, bored, and regretting not going into the office anyway. Finally, he gave in and rang the office again. “Constance, are you busy tonight?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Would it be terribly forward of me to ask you to have dinner with me? It’s quite selfish of me. I want cheering up and you’re...rather good at it.”

“Am I?” He heard her smile. “Then I suppose I’d better. Will I need to go home and change?”

“Not unless you want to. Have you got the money for a taxi? I’ll pay it back when you get here.”

“I can take the Tube, Athos. Just give me your address.” He did so. “I’ll see you around six thirty then.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

When he rang off, he ran his hands through his hair in anxiety. What was he doing? Aramis would never let him forget this.

Aramis rang later that afternoon. “How are you, _mon cher_?”

“Better. You?”

“Porthos is taking me out to dinner before he goes to Alice’s. I’ll go back to my place this evening.”

Oliver was stung by a pang of guilt. “You don’t have to.”

“Of course I don’t. But I want to, unless you need me to be there?”

“I’ll be fine. Er, how did you get on with the new clients?”

“All straightforward. Treville didn’t come in.”

“Yes, Constance told me when I rang this morning.”

“You need to talk to him, man to man.”

“I’d really rather ignore the entire thing.”

“Athos, that won’t work.”

“I’ll deal with it next week then. Do you, er, have plans for the weekend?”

“None at all.”

“Come over on Sunday morning then. For breakfast, if you like. Porthos too, if he’s free.”

“I suspect the lovely Alice has plans for him,” Aramis said wryly. “But thank you. You sound more rational. Are you?”

“Ignoring, Aramis.”

“Of course. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Talking of Marsac set Oliver to thinking about the entire odd business of the accusation against Treville. Oliver would never believe Major Treville would betray his country in the smallest way, even by accident. But was it possible that his father—who had been eighty when he died near the end of the war, and quite childish by then—had been indiscreet or foolish?

Oliver longed to ask the younger Treville, but it would be unwise to attempt to do so today.  Still, there were other ways of enquiring about certain matters. He made the dinner reservation for that evening, and waited impatiently for Constance to arrive.

The doorman called up to the flat at precisely six-thirty to say he had a visitor. Oliver flew down the stairs and rushed across the lobby. To his relief, Constance was once again dressed impeccably, almost too well for her position, but just right for their destination that evening. He took her hands. “Thank you for coming.”

“You look better than I expected. I thought you might have spent the day drinking.” She tempered the implicit criticism with a dimpled smile, and Oliver couldn’t find it in him to be offended, since she hadn’t been so far off the mark.

“I refrained out of respect for you,” he said.

“Oh.” She blinked in surprise. “So where are you taking me?”

Oliver signalled to the doorman than he wanted a taxi. “The [Army and Navy club](https://www.therag.co.uk/).”

“Oh.” She brushed down her skirt, biting her lip. “Am I dressed all right?”

“Perfectly. But do you fancy a little bit of sleuthing along with your supper?”

She grinned. “Always.”

****************

Constance was a little overawed by the club surroundings and the attentive waiter, but she handled the novel situation gracefully, and cooed over the menu, limited though it was by rationing and shortages caused by the winter just past. Oliver was pleased. He didn’t actually need Constance’s help in what he planned to do, but her company buoyed his sprits, and telling her the somewhat convoluted story helped him sort out a few things in his mind.

“You think this ‘source’ that man mentioned was a civilian, then?” she asked when he had finished.

“I can’t be sure. It’s just a hunch, that’s all. And I might be barking up the wrong tree. I almost certainly am. But I wanted to check, and since I needed somewhere to take you....”

“Two birds with one stone.”

“Precisely.”

She ate a bit of carrot then laid her fork down again. “Was it the death of this deserter which put you out of sorts? I didn’t realise you knew him that well.”

“I didn’t. And no.” He took a sip of his wine, debating whether to tell her. “The major and my wife apparently had—have—some sort of intimate relationship. I only discovered this last night.”

She stared at him. “Not while you were—”

“No, no. Afterwards. After...Thomas.”

She frowned. “And?”

“And what?”

“And what happened then to upset you?”

“Nothing. I discovered they were, or are, in a relationship.”

“And you think that’s reasonable, do you? You don’t want her but no one else can have her?”

Oliver sat back. “Treville was my commanding officer. And my friend.”

“Erm, weren’t you telling me she worked for him as well? Wasn’t he her friend too?”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘but’, Athos. You didn’t want her, he did. If I’d known you were sulking over this, I would never have accepted your invitation.”

“I’m not _sulking_ ,” he said, barely managing not to snap at her. “But I consider it a breach of trust.”

“She’s not your possession. If I’d met someone I liked while my husband was in prison, before he died, would he have had a right to be upset?”

“No. But I didn’t hit her, Constance. She—”

“Killed a traitor who happened to be your brother. I really do feel sorry for her, you know. You blame her for doing her job, and you blame her for seeking comfort after you reject her. I thought you were nice.” She folded her napkin, and for a horrifying moment, he thought she was about to walk out. “Give me one reason she can’t have a relationship with whomever she pleases.”

“She. Treville.” Oliver faltered, then scowled. “I can’t.”

“Then unless you still love her and want her back, I should shut up about it, if I were you.” She suddenly put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I’m forgetting myself.”

He shook his head. “Please don’t apologise. It’s exactly what I should do. I apologise to you for being such a boor.”

She reached over and touched his hand. “It’s all right to be sad, though. Just as long as you’re not putting yourself in their way.”

He made an effort and smiled. “Thank you, my dear. I knew you’d be good for me. Now, pudding?”

Once they were finished their meal, Oliver called the waiter over. “Is the club secretary around this evening?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is it possible to have a word with him?”

“I’ll give him your message, my lord, and come right back.”

Constance grinned. “It’s so strange to hear people call you ‘my lord’, my lord.”

“Oh don’t. I hate it. I wasn’t supposed to be an earl or a viscount at all. My uncle held the title, and his son, if he’d had one, would have been Viscount d’Athos. But he and his wife were killed in a car accident when I was seventeen, and they had no children. Suddenly I went from being a well-off nobody to the heir to the Delafere estate. It was a quite a shock. Then my father died not long after the war ended, and there I was. Earl Delafere.”

“How did you meet your wife? Was it before the war?”

“Yes,” Oliver said, amazed he could speak of this without cringing. “She and her sister came to Britain from France in 1931. The family could see the way things were headed and wanted their daughters to be safe in case war came.”

“She’s French?”

“Oh yes, very much so. And Jewish. One of the families in our circle, who knew Anne’s father, took the girls in and treated them as their own daughters. Unfortunately, Anne’s sister had never been strong, and died of influenza in 1934, which left Anne alone. When I met her in 1932, she was sixteen, a year younger than I was. She already spoke English fluently and with barely a trace of an accent. I fell head over heels for her.”

He stopped and she touched his hand again. “Don’t, if it hurts.”

“There’s not much more to tell. If I’d still been the well-off nobody, no one would have cared much, but suddenly, being the future Lord Delafere, people were horrified at the prospect of a Jewish countess. I didn’t give a damn, of course, and my parents liked her. So did Thomas. We married when I came home from my first year at Oxford. After I joined the Army, and war looked inevitable, she joined the [ATS](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auxiliary_Territorial_Service). My superior officer, Treville, recruited me, then her, and then Thomas for the SOE. We spent long periods apart because of her mission—I spent a lot of the war worried sick about her— but we were still so happy until that day when the major came to tell me my brother was dead and Anne had been the one to kill him.” His throat closed up and he reached for the water glass.

“Athos.”

“And that’s where I must end it for now,” he said, spotting the waiter, just in time to spare him embarrassing himself.

“Mr Seaford would be glad to speak to you, my lord, if you’d care to follow me.”

“What about me?” Constance asked.

“Come with me, my dear,” Athos said, putting his hand on her arm. “I’m sure Mr Seaford won’t mind.”

Oliver was sure of no such thing, but being a peer of the realm did offer some advantages, one of which was that commoners tended to give him a much greater leeway on behaviour than to one of their own kind. He hated that normally, but he’d cheerfully abuse it to get the information he sought.

The club secretary did smile rather tightly at Constance, but Oliver explained that Constance was a valued colleague assisting him with a matter of some importance. “I would like to see the member’s guest register for January 1942, if I could.”

“It’s a little unusual, my lord. You understand that privacy is of the utmost importance to our members.”

“Yes, indeed. However, the member had been dead over two years, and I’m trying to assist his son to clear his father’s name of an atrocious accusation. And, of course, that would remove the risk of any scandal attaching to the club.”

“You wouldn’t care to give me more details than that, would you, my lord?”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. Official Secrets Act and all that. Unless you signed it as we have?”

“Uh, no, my lord. Please give me a moment to fetch the ledger.”

Constance bit her lip as the man went to his back office. “He’s scared to death of you.”

“Can’t help that. I really do need to see that register.”

The man returned with a thick bound book. “I need to remain in the room while you peruse it, my lord. You understand.”

“Of course. Here, Constance. You’re quicker than me. The member’s name is Jean-Armand Treville.”

The secretary’s head bobbed in alarm. “The general, my lord?”

“The late general, Mr Seaford. As I say, I want to clear his name, not smear it. I don’t suppose you remember him?”

“No, sir. He retired on grounds of infirmity in 1944, and I started in this position not long after. But I remember people talking about him. Sorry when they heard of his death, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, of course.” Constance was skimming down the names of members at high speed, and Oliver couldn’t keep up with her. The ambush had happened at the end of April, and he was pretty sure it hadn’t been planned for longer than a month. If the elder Treville hadn’t dined with any one in that period, then either he’d met someone somewhere else, or Oliver was on a wild goose chase.

“Here,” Constance said, pointing to a line on the page. Oliver leaned over and hissed when he read the name. “And here, and there again. Is that what you were after?”

“I believe it is. Mr Seaford, I need to take a photograph of this, I’m sorry. It’s a matter of national security.”

By that point, Seaford had given up trying to stop Oliver doing as he pleased. Oliver used the tiny spy camera he habitually carried to snap the page, using the desk light for illumination. “Thank you, Mr Seaford. You’ve been of great assistance.”

“Always happy to help the security service, my lord, madam. Let me show you out.”

Before they left the club, Oliver stopped to make a phone call to Treville. “John, it’s Athos.”

“Athos, I really don’t want to talk about Anne.”

“Nor do I. This is about another matter. Concerning our late-lamented recent acquaintance and the list we’ve been working on. It’s important, and I can’t talk about it over the phone.”

“Then you better come over, hadn’t you?”

“Thank you. I’ll be about half an hour.”

He hung up and turned to Constance. “I’m going to Hammersmith to see the major. You don’t have to come.”

“May I, though?”

“Certainly. This could get somewhat loud, I’m warning you now.”

“I think I’m getting used to that.”

****************

Treville was more than a tad surprised to see Constance in front of him when he opened the door to his visitor. Athos was behind her. “We had dinner together,” Athos said.

Treville couldn’t have been more shocked if Athos had said he’d waltzed naked down Whitehall playing the bagpipes. “Come in,” he said, realising any biting words he wanted to deliver to Athos would have to wait.

In the hall, d’Artagnan hovered, forewarned for Athos’s arrival, but not Constance’s. “Hello, Charles,” she said, walking forward with her hand out. “We haven’t been formally introduced. My name’s Constance.”

Like a kitten with its eyes barely open, Charles stared at her in confusion before shaking her hand. “ _Enchanté, mademoiselle_.”

“ _Madame_ ,” Athos murmured. “We’ve met, of course.” He also extended his hand, which the lad took.

“Yes, I know. I am very sorry, my lord.”

“Oh God, not another one. Call me Athos. Are you Charles or d’Artagnan?”

“D’Artagnan, _monsieur_. Sorry to offend,” he added to Constance.

“It’s all right.”

“Come through to the living room,” Treville said. “Charles, you might want to go to your room.”

“Yes, sir. See you later,” he said, before bolting.

“His manners have improved,” Athos said as he walked into the living room.

“I hope yours have.” Treville shut the door and poked the fire. “Now what was so important you couldn’t tell me on the telephone?”

Athos sat on an armchair, leaving the sofa for Constance. “We had supper at the Army and Navy club. Your father was a member there, I recalled.”

“Yes?” Treville stood with his arms behind his back, facing them. “What of it?”

“I couldn’t help but think of Aramis’s insistence that finding the intermediary Marsac’s German captain mentioned was important. And I wondered, if—forgive me, John—your father, while he was in mental decline—”

“For God’s sake, Athos! Didn’t we already establish Marsac was a bloody lunatic? Excuse my language, Constance.” She smiled politely.

“Bear with me, I beg you. I’m not accusing your father. I’m accusing someone of possibly exploiting his condition. In the two weeks before that ambush, your father met Herman Duplessis for dinner at the club three times.”

Treville went rigid. “So? Duplessis is a man in good public standing, after all. Nothing suspicious about that.”

“Except we know he’s up to something potentially politically manipulative. What if his aim is to re-establish fascism?”

“How? By nobbling a peace activist?”

Constance spoke up. “Sir, if he wants a more war-hungry government, removing people in favour of peace would be important, wouldn’t it? Do we know if Mr Granger is influential on the Labour party?”

Athos glanced at her. “She’s right, you know. It’s not just one man. It’s at least ten. How many did Anne mention?”

“At least half a dozen more. She said she didn’t like the sound of some of the people he was meeting in Europe, though she didn’t give me any more details. Of course, I can’t ask her now without you throwing a tantrum over it.”

Athos looked to the ceiling. “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

“Don’t mind me,” Constance said. “Sir, may I use your lavatory?”

“Through the kitchen and laundry. I’ll send a search party after ten minutes.”

She laughed and closed the door behind her. “I owe you an apology,” Athos murmured. “I was an ass.”

“Yes, you were.” Treville cleared his throat. “However, I can see how it was a shock, and she was being deliberately provocative. Nothing happened while you were together. This was after you two went your separate ways, and she had come back to England after a mission where she’d been wounded. She was in a frightful state. I...failed to resist the temptation of abusing my privilege.”

“I’m sure she would have stopped you if she felt you had. I’m glad she had you, John. Constance and...Aramis...have made me realise I’ve behaved very badly towards her.”

“Don’t tell me, Athos. Tell her.”

“I plan to. But to answer your objection, I won’t throw a tantrum. Though as her husband, I can contact her directly should we need to. Nothing suspicious about us meeting up to discuss divorce terms.”

“You would still divorce her?”

“Did you see any indication she felt any affection for me—not that she should—last night?”

Treville shook his head. “You’re a fool, but I’m not going to act as your priest. She’s Duplessis’s mistress though. She doesn’t just work for him.”

Athos sat up, startled. “Are they in love?”

“Hardly. And if Duplessis is attempting to revive fascism in this country, she’ll kill him herself.”

“Yes, and with my blessing. Stop looking at me like that, John. I’m entitled to change my mind.”

“More a Damascene conversion, but as you like. Whisky?”

“Please.” Athos rose as Treville went to the drink’s cabinet. “How’s the boy settling in?”

“Perfectly well. He enjoyed last night, however strange that seems. He’s rather too fond of excitement.”

“A lot of people around like that after the war. Will he take the job?”

“He says so. Anne didn’t have long enough to talk to him, but he said she helped him over...well, the whole Thomas thing.” He lifted his chin in challenge. “I hope she’ll talk more to him.”

“I really won’t stand in her or your way, John. And if you and she are...you know, then I wish you the best of luck.”

Treville paused in pouring the whisky. “Really?”

“Yes. I can’t expect her to come back to me. I don’t know that I want her back. The war changed us all.”

“Unfortunately. You still haven’t given me a reason to assume Duplessis was behind the ambush on Aramis’s team.”

Constance opened the door and walked in. “Found it.”

Treville turned to her. “Would you like a drink, my dear? A brandy or something else?”

“I’m all right, sir. I don’t really drink.”

“Though she enjoys sherry.” Athos smiled wryly as he retook his seat. “I had to behave myself at dinner.”

“That’s a first,” Treville said. “Would you like a sherry then?

“He was a perfect gentleman,” Constance scolded. “And yes, thank you.” Treville dredged up an unopened bottle which had to date back to before his mother’s death, eight years ago, and poured a small glassful, which he handed to his secretary. “Please, sir, go on with what you were saying.”

“Well?” Treville asked Athos.

“I’m not assuming anything. I simply thought, in light of what else we know of the man, the coincidence could be something more. With Marsac and your father both dead, there’s nothing more we can do. I think it might be worth talking to MI6 now.”

“I agree. But Anne asked for a little more time. Is there any urgency?”

“No,” Athos said slowly. “And if Constance is right about what Duplessis is up to—”

“It’s your theory, Athos,” she said.

“If we’re right then,” he said, looking at her fondly, “then talking to Ninon Larroque next week could be useful. I’m taking Constance there to dinner, on Wednesday.”

“Good,” Treville said, trying to hide his renewed surprise. “How is Aramis?”

“Finding it difficult. I’ll see him on Sunday. He’s with Porthos now.”

“Poor sod.  Should we tell him about this?”

“Not now. There’s not a shred of proof your father did anything untoward, certainly not deliberately. We have to find out what Duplessis is up to now.”

“What are you doing to do when you find out?” Constance asked.

Athos looked at her, then at Treville. “There’s the rub.”

“Let MI6 sort it out,” Treville said. “All we can do is hand them the clues and details. We’re not soldiers any more, Athos. We have no authority. And if Anne kills him over it, she’ll be tried for murder.”

“Please. Give her credit. If she does kill him, he won’t see it coming, and no one will ever suspect her. Or even that he’s been murdered.”

“It would be better to disgrace him,” Treville said.

“And give some of his wealth to the widows and orphans of the men he betrayed, if he did,” Athos said.

“Like Marsac’s mum, poor woman.” The two men looked at her. “He was a victim too, don’t forget.”

Treville nodded. “You’re quite right. Marsac tried to kill me, but he had what he thought were sound reasons.”

“Speaking of Damascene conversions,” Athos murmured, apparently apropos of nothing.

“Drink your damn whisky,” Treville growled.


	6. Chapter 6

No one was more relieved than Oliver when the meeting with Treville turned into a pleasant conversation filled with smiles and chuckles, rather than the angry confrontation he’d expected. Constance was the lightest of lightweights when it came to alcohol, and one glass of sherry had her pink-faced and giggling at the tales both men came out with of Aramis’s and Porthos’s deeds and misdeeds before the war, and while working for the office.

“Are you really going to put that poor young man with those two?” she asked, gasping for air.

“D’Artagnan? He’s French,” Oliver said, dismissing the objection with a slightly too dramatic wave of his hand. “Nothing would shock him.”

“A French farm boy,” Treville corrected.

“Goats and pigs,” Oliver said. “He knows the facts of life.” Constance nearly fell off the chair, and he had to grab her arm to stop her.

“Oops,” she said, then put her hand over her mouth. “I think maybe it’s time I went home, sir. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Not at all,” Treville said. “It’s nearly midnight. I’ll call you a taxi.”

He waited on the pavement outside the house for them to depart, and said to Oliver as he was about to step into the taxi, “I’ll talk to Aramis on Monday. Do tell him I don’t blame him at all, and ask if there’s anything I can do.”

“Will do. See you on Monday, John.”

Oliver gave the cab driver Constance’s address, and that he would be travelling on from there to Chelsea. As he sat back, Constance fanned herself. “Oh dear, I’m all red. I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself.”

“You were the model of ladylike propriety, Constance.” For some reason that made her giggle again, and he smiled. “I hope it wasn’t too dull an evening for you.”

“Oh heavens, no. I’d be listening to the radio eating chips if you hadn’t asked me out. And I’d have been in bed two hours ago.”

“That sounds rather cosy.”

“Not really. My friend will have her boyfriend over, so I’ll have to listen to them in the next room. It’s the only part of marriage I miss, really.”

Oliver tried not to show his shock at her frank comment. “Er, yes. Same here, I suppose.”

“But you miss her too, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do.” Memories of their young love, of Anne in her wild, free days as a schoolgirl—Oliver had been insensitive enough not to appreciate how much of that was an act, underlain as it had to be with sorrow over her sister, worry over her parents, and rage at what the Nazi party was doing to Jews in Germany—and the early days of their marriage, such short, joyous moments together between missions, came too easily to him. It was hard for him to reconcile them with Anne after Thomas’s death, as it had been to align his memories of his brother with what he had become, unbeknownst to and unseen by Oliver.

He jerked a little as she touched his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you sad again.”

“You didn’t. It’s a chronic melancholy. Or, as Porthos would put it, I’m just a moody rich bastard.”

She giggled. “You’re not a _bastard_.” Then she covered her mouth again and Oliver smiled at her tiddly confusion.

He walked her upstairs. “Thank you for this evening, Constance. It was delightful.”

“Thank you, Athos. I had a wonderful time.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He stared in surprise, the feel of her warm lips lingering sweetly on his cold skin. “Um, was that improper of me?”

He took her hand and stared into her eyes. “Not at all.” He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

She was about to invite him in, he was certain, an invitation he would have to decline. But then she smiled. “Goodnight.”

His thoughts so preoccupied him after that, the cabbie had to tell him twice that they had reached his building. And his dreams were of Anne as she had been when younger, changing slowly into a sad-eyed Constance, holding a gun in her hands, asking him why she had to die.

He was so gloomy the next day, that he even bored himself. He decided to get his car out of the garage in Battersea, and took a run up to Camden. Aramis, fortunately, was home. “Hello,” he said, opening the door to Oliver. “I thought we were meeting tomorrow.”

“I’m going stir crazy in London. Fancy a run up to my estate? We can stay overnight, even Sunday too. You didn’t have any other plans, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. Give me a couple of minutes to pack a couple shirts.”

Like Oliver—and Porthos—Aramis still packed like a soldier, and literally two minutes later, they were back in Oliver’s Lagonda, and heading north to Pinon House, the family seat, and only one of a number of valuable properties Oliver owned and hardly had any use for. Given his preference, since it was dry and sunny, he would have had the top down, but Aramis hated the cold, so he put it up and turned the heater on. “Knee rugs on the back seat,” he told Aramis.

It would take them about an hour to drive straight there at top legal speed, but there was no particular hurry, the Lagonda needed a run, and Aramis content to let Oliver go at his own pace, subject to the limits of his petrol coupons. Just before noon, they pitched up to the country pub closest to the estate, where Oliver had sunk many a pint in happier times.

The pub landlord was startled to see the lord of the manor—and _his_ landlord—walk in with his friend. “Good day to you, my lord, sir. What can I get you?”

“Two pints of your best bitter, thank you, Owen. And is Mrs Owen doing lunch for customers?”

“I should say so. Shall I put an order in for you?”

“Certainly.”

“Will you be staying up at the dower house, my lord?”

“Yes, for a couple of nights. Going back to London on Monday morning.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Aramis smirked at him as they sat down with their drinks. “The nobleman returns to his natural habitat.”

“Piss off, Herblay.”

“And his natural patterns of speech too. So, what’s got you all miserable and glowering?”

Oliver hunched over his pint. “I’m trying to decide whether I should reconcile with Anne, if you must know.”

Aramis blew beer all over himself and had to borrow a handkerchief from Oliver to wipe himself. “What on earth’s come over you?”

“You, actually. And Constance. And Treville, for that matter. Pointing out that I’ve been a bit of a bastard to her.”

“Do you have any idea if she would even want to come back to you?”

“Not a clue. But I feel I ought to offer, at the very least.”

“She _was_ unfaithful, Athos.”

“In the middle of the war, in France, under the constant threat of death and torture, when she hadn’t seen me in six months, and wouldn’t again for another three. I don’t know that I wouldn’t have disgraced myself in those circumstances.”

“Yes, but with Thomas.”

Oliver looked at Aramis. “With a man who was as close to me as she could get. At least one could interpret it that way. I never bothered to ask. The other matter was the overriding misery.”

“Yes,” Aramis murmured. “Do you still love her?”

“Yes. Underneath it all, I always did. That’s why it hurt.”

“But do you still hate her? Or at least resent her for what she did?”

“I...I’m rapidly losing that. What’s left is reflex from three years of anger so deep I couldn’t breathe from it.”

“So when will you talk to her?”

“Soon,” Oliver said. “I should offer to have her back, or decently divorce her. This limbo we’re in, doesn’t do either of us any good.”

Aramis went to hand back the handkerchief. “I have dozens,” Oliver said, refusing it. Aramis shoved it into his coat.

“You’d better be damn sure how you feel before you do meet, _mon cher_. If the other night was any indication, she despises you for how you’ve behaved. A veritable mountain of grovelling might be involved.”

“I won’t grovel. But...apologies need to be made. And a period of adjustment, if she wishes.”

“God knows I want the two of you reconciled. But this is an amazing _volte face_ in two days. And forgive me,” he added, putting his hand on Oliver’s, “you don’t convince me that you want her back.”

“I don’t know if I can go back to my life as it was before the war, that’s all. I doubt that she does. Now I have the office, all you fellows, a life and a purpose beyond running the estate. I’m damn sure Anne sees herself now as more than the lady of the manor. And she should. She’s intelligent, quick, and the equal in bravery to any man I’ve ever met. Being my wife won’t be enough for her.”

Aramis lifted his pint. “Then, my friend, you two do have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes. We truly do.”

****************

Selfishly motivated or not, Athos’s offer for a weekend out of the city had come at the perfect time for Aramis. After Marsac’s death, and the bitter interaction between two of his closest friends, had left him feeling as if the mooring to which he had desperately attached himself after the war, had crumbled, and that he was now adrift.

Spending Friday evening with Porthos had been sweet torture. He adored time in the man’s company, because nothing was easier than being with Porthos. His big friend didn’t judge, didn’t wallow, always looked to the future, and would listen for hours if Aramis needed to talk.

But then, of course, Porthos had said goodnight and gone to Ealing, and Aramis had been left to contemplate the wreckage of friendships and marriages, and the possible wreckage of a friendship _through_ marriage, and all in all, if Athos hadn’t knocked on his door that Saturday, Aramis didn’t know what he would have done.

Even getting up early in the freezing dark to drive back to London so the Lagonda could be garaged again, and they could go by Athos’s flat for him to change into a suit, was worth the peace of a solid day and a half in a friend’s company, eating good country food, and frankly, sleeping in damn good beds. All of this was, as Aramis was too well aware, a rare luxury that too many in Britain had not experienced during six years of war, and, with [the state of things as they were now](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-495096/Britain-1947-Poverty-queues-rationing--resilience.html), would not for several years to come.

They ate breakfast together after they’d both had a wash, with plenty of time to catch the Tube to the office.

“I want you to stay here,” Athos said.

“Not go to work, you mean?” Aramis asked, quite confused.

“No, no. Give up that squalid bedsit and live here. Good grief, Aramis. I have three bedrooms. If I can’t offer you a decent place to live, what kind of friend am I? I had no idea you were living so hard.”

“Many people have it worse, and it’s all I need—”

“Nonsense. Stay here. We’ll collect the rest of your stuff this evening, and you can give your notice. You don’t have to stay here forever if you hate it, but I’m bound to have a tenant leave sooner or later, and you can have your own place again.”

“I can afford—”

Athos glared. “Clearly you can’t. Indulge me, or I’ll break your legs.”

Aramis laughed. “Anything you say, my lord.”

They were the first in the office, but Constance appeared as they were hanging up their coats. “You’re early birds today,” she said, smiling brightly.

“I thought I should set a good example after last week,” Athos said, smiling back. Was Aramis imagining the way his eyes softened as he looked at her. “How was your weekend?”

“Educational. I went to the British Museum, and the Tate, and the National Gallery, and rode the bus down to Greenwich. Then after lunch....”

Athos laughed, as did Aramis. “We get the idea.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Better, thanks to Aramis. He came up and stayed at the estate on the weekend with me in the dower cottage. The main house is let to some filthy rich American.”

“So you spent the weekend playing lords and ladies,” she said to Aramis, giving him the benefit of her dimples.

“Lords, at least. I told him, since he lacks an heir, I’m always happy to be adopted.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Now you’ve mentioned that, I could always auction off the adoption rights. I could raise another fortune.”

“And what would you do with another one, my lord?”

There was a snort of annoyance behind him. “Get out of the way, man, you’re blocking the door,” Treville grumbled. Aramis obeyed. His boss looked him in the eye. “How are you this morning?”

“Better, sir. You?”

“Same.” He only glanced at Athos, but the two didn’t seem antagonistic, so...good? “You brought us a puppy, how kind.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Treville muttered. The youth walked in, looking warily at all of them. “You weren’t formally introduced the other night. This is Charles d’Artagnan, Aramis. D’Artagnan, Aramis Herblay. Do _not_ follow his lead on anything.”

“No, sir.” The boy’s grin gave the lie to that, then, to Aramis’s shock, he looked at Aramis with open appreciation. “ _Monsieur Treville me dit que vous êtes français,_ ” he said.

“ _Je suis à moitié français. Ravi de vous rencontrer, d'Artagnan._ ” They shook hands. “Finally, you can meet all of us without a gun involved.”

D’Artagnan cocked a hip, and tilted his head. " _Je n'ai que le pistolet que tous les hommes portent._ ”

Aramis blinked, Treville choked, and Athos held up a hand. “D’Artagnan, do please bear it in mind that the major and I are both fluent French speakers. And also, the laws and mores in England are different than in France.”

“Yes, I understand,” d’Artagnan said in English. “ _So ein rückständiges Land_ ,” he said somewhat less fluently.

“Ah, we all speak German too,” Aramis said, unable to hide his grin. “So, since I’m not to train him, who’s to look after him?”

“Me,” Athos said, rolling his eyes. “You too, but under supervision.”

“And Porthos.”

“God, no,” Treville said with a groan. “Constance, show the lad where the facilities are, and when Luke or Edward show up, he can follow them around for the day. Aramis, Athos, my office.”

“Before tea? How uncivilised,” Aramis said, which earned him a weary glare from his boss.

They went into the office and closed the door. “How are you?” Treville asked.

“Better. I had a chance to talk to Athos and Porthos. It’s a frightful shame, but Marsac’s dead, and the matter is over.”

“Ah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. On Friday, Athos and Constance had dinner in the Army and Navy club. My father’s club—Athos’s club too, of course—”

“You had dinner with Constance?” Aramis asked Athos. “How did that not come up?”

“Aramis, not now,” Treville snapped. “Athos did a bit of snooping through the member’s register, and found my father had dinner with Herman Duplessis several times before the ambush on your team.”

Aramis sat up. “Why is that significant?”

“Because Anne dropped over to the house last night to continue the chat with d’Artagnan. I told her in detail what Marsac said he’d been told, and she said, quote, ‘Herman’s nickname among his friends is the cardinal’.”

Aramis felt all the blood rush from his head. Athos put his arm on him to steady him. Treville rose and filled a water glass from the carafe on the bureau. He made Aramis sip it and wait until he wasn’t liable to faint.

Aramis put the glass on the desk. “Are you saying that Sir Herman Duplessis was a Nazi spy?”

“I think it’s beginning to look that way. On Saturday, I went through my father’s diaries. He was assiduous in keeping one right up until his faculties failed him. He seems to have become a friend of Duplessis.”

“You mean, Duplessis courted him,” Athos said.

“Most likely. I’ve been able to link at least four meetings between them which took place suspiciously conveniently close to missions which ended in failure because of advance intelligence held by the Nazi.”

Aramis went to stand. “I’ll kill him!” he said. Athos rose and pushed him back down, not unkindly. “You won’t stop me.”

“I will, and so will the police. Aramis, shocking as this is, the important thing is what the hell he’s up to now. Anne believes, and has convinced me, that he’s up to something bigger.”

“Bigger than sabotaging our war effort?”

“Yes. I’ve told you all this because you deserve to know that Marsac was right. And I’m ashamed of what my father did, even though I’m sure he had no idea what was going on. You have to understand that getting him to admit he wasn’t up to the job was difficult, humiliating for him, and painful for both of us, and his friends. I’ve been in denial about what harm he could have done before that.” Treville’s eyes begged for forgiveness. Aramis nodded. Filial devotion was something he could understand, and the situation was pitiable.

“Duplessis exploited an old, sick man who should have been pensioned off before the war, John,” Athos said. “The ones to blame were the ones who gave him access to information he was not fit to have.”

“Yes, that’s also true,” Treville said. “Aramis? I need you not to go off half-cocked. Marsac did that and it got him killed.”

“Marsac knew none of us believed him and was desperate,” he bit out. “We left him no choice. We called him a deserter, and threatened him to make him leave the country. He deserved a medal, not death.”

“We can’t undo what’s done,” Treville said, which prosaicism made Aramis’s teeth grind. “You need to use your anger productively. Channel it towards exposing Duplessis and bringing him down.”

“And how do we do that? There’s no provable link between Freddie Parker and Duplessis, Marsac is dead, diaries and dinners are weak and circumstantial.”

“We have one very strong bit of evidence—Anne Delafere. Duplessis is using her to compromise some of his targets.”

Athos shifted. “You didn’t tell me that, John.”

Treville glanced at him. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. It means if Duplessis finds out what we know, she’s in grave danger.”

Treville pursed his lips in annoyance. “I know that, and she knows that. Which is why that information doesn’t leave this room. But if it comes to it....”

“She’s his mistress. Duplessis will cast her as a woman scorned, a criminal, and say she set these men up for her own ends,” Aramis said. “Men like him never pay for what they make others do.”

“He will this time. I swear he will. But we need more information. Athos, do you think you could meet Anne, set up a pretext for more meetings? I want the names of people he’s meeting with that she considers suspicious. I want dates and places. I want to know his movements.”

“She has no reason to meet me, John. Why can’t she keep meeting you?”

“Because she’s afraid Duplessis will become suspicious. But you have a good reason to meet her.”

“Very well. I’ll give it a try,” Athos said.

“Aramis, you and Athos need to dig into that list we have, and into the names Anne should provide. Athos is going to speak to Ninon Larroque and she might be able to shed some light on things. Athos, can you meet Anne before dinner on Wednesday?”

“If I call her at Duplessis’s mansion, will she be furious?”

“Most likely,” Treville said without a hint of a smile. “Use your charm,” he added, which made Aramis snort in amusement. “I suggest you get on with that.”

“Can I tell Porthos any of this?” Aramis said. “Because I’m not damn well deceiving my best friend.”

“Yes, go ahead. Just don’t mention the bit about Anne’s involvement. What he doesn’t know, no one can beat out of him.”

“ _Porthos_?” Aramis and Athos said in unison.

Treville gave them a wry look.  “Yes, well...unless he needs to know, don’t mention it. D’Artagnan knows some of this, so make sure he understands the need for discretion. Sit on him, if you have to.”

Athos shot Aramis a look. Aramis did his best to look innocent. “Anything else, John?”

“Not for now. Ah, Aramis—Marsac’s mother. Have you spoken to her?”

“Not yet.”

“When you do, it might be fitting to find out if she’s in financial need. We can at least pay for a funeral.”

“Yes, sir. That would be fitting.”

The meeting was over. Athos put his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “If you need to talk.”

“Thank you. I’ll go outside for a cigarette, and you can call your wife. Then we start work.”

“As you wish.”

Constance looked up as he passed. “Are you all right, Aramis?”

“Always, _chérie_.”

 Her look was sceptical. “Will you be long?”

“A cigarette, that’s all. Can’t smoke in here. Too much of a fire risk with all this paper.”

“Then I’ll put the kettle on for you.”

“You are a pearl among women, Constance.”

“Does that make you the swine, Aramis?”

D’Artagnan turned around and grinned. Athos coughed out a laugh, but quickly bent over his desk when Aramis glared. “Assailed on all sides,” Aramis said dramatically, hand over his heart. “Cruelly attacked.”

“Cigarette?” she reminded him.

“Tea,” he reminded her with a smile.

The air outside was scarcely better for him than the cigarette smoke, but he smoked one anyway. He could have done better by Marsac, kept him concealed. If he had, Treville might be dead now, which Aramis could not ever wish for. But there had to have been a better way to handle it.

He stared up at the bright sky, shivering though the temperature was actually pleasant. He remembered the cold that January day in 1942. Hiking five miles through snow with seven other men to an isolated cabin near the Belgian border. The intelligence had told them Nazis were hiding three captured scientists the Allies believed were involved in secret research on a devastating new weapon which could wipe out London in one stroke. The mission was to eliminate everyone in the cabin—harsh, but necessary.

Quarter of a mile from the cabin they were ambushed. German soldiers, lying in the snow and camouflaged—at the time, Aramis had assumed the soldiers had been guarding the scientists. He was shot twice in the upper body, and received a ricochet strike to his head which severely concussed him, so he was only dimly aware of being rescued by resistance fighters and smuggled, at incredible risk to the French, back to England.

They’d never stood a chance, he knew now. The Germans had known they were there, because of a traitor and a sick, silly old man.

Aramis was going to make Duplessis pay hard for that, and for what had happened to Marsac.

****************

Oliver asked his solicitors to contact Anne at Duplessis’s mansion, feeling it would give an air of verisimilitude to the pretence it was to arrange divorce proceedings. He asked them to particularly mention that they needed to discuss the disposal of the ‘De Winter’ property. ‘De Winter’ had been one of Anne’s wartime aliases, and Oliver hoped that would clue her into the fact this was more than a legal discussion.

He arranged lunch at [Claridges ](http://www.claridges.co.uk/)on Monday, suspecting she wouldn’t delay the rendezvous. He was right. She turned up exactly at one, looking beautiful in a mink stole and pale blue wool dress. “My lord,” she said, looking at him with cool green eyes.

“My lady,” he said, not offering his hand as she sat down at the table. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you. You’re improved for not being murderous, certainly.”

He ordered them gin fizzes to start, and the waiter left them to peruse the menu. “I doubt it will take much acting, but we do have to keep up a pretence of hostility.” She sneered elegantly.  He kept his expression blank. “Anne, I owe you the deepest of apologies. I’ve been cruel, unjust, heartlessly unconcerned about your welfare, and I’ve been so very wrong about Thomas.”

The only sign of emotion was the tiniest frown between perfectly delineated brows. “Is this some kind of manipulation?”

“No. But this is not the place to discuss it. I wanted you to know that though, and that I want...we should talk. When it’s safe.”

“And when will that be, husband?”

“I assume Duplessis is watching you?”

“He had me followed. There’s no one I recognise in here, but it’s safer to assume that this doesn’t mean he has no one reporting on me.”

“As I thought.” He raised his voice a little. “I brought a list of properties that I thought might make a fair settlement for you.” He drew out the envelope in his breast pocket and handed it over. She opened it and scanned it, her face showing no reaction. “I’m prepared to be generous, considering your infidelity.”

Only then did she show anger, but damned if he could tell if it was real or confected. “Your _brother_ pursued me, Oliver. It does take two, after all.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Her chin lifted a little, and this time, he believed her.

“Well. It was wartime, and perhaps some lenience is permitted. That’s why I want this to be civilised.

She sneered again. “Because war is so very civilised,” she murmured.

The waiter returned and they ordered. Anne sipped delicately at her cocktail. “Do you mind if I make some notes?” she said, nodding at the list of properties. “For your solicitor, I mean.”

“Not at all. Though I warn you not to push me,” he added in a slightly louder voice again. She lifted her eyes to heaven. Perhaps that was overdoing it.

She removed the last page from the set of papers and used a pencil from her handbag to scribble notes on it. She had finished by the time the soup arrived, and handed the paper to him. “I doubt that will trouble you,” she said, lifting the wine the waiter had poured for her.

Oliver lifted his glass. “To civil discussions.”

“Quite.”

Conscious that they might be being watched, and could possibly be overheard, Oliver kept the topics of conversation to those an estranged man and wife might reasonably engage in. But at the same time, it had been so long since he’d seen her, and there was so much he wanted to know about how she was. “I heard you were in France,” he said as the fish plates were taken away.

“I was. There’s nothing left for me there.” The sorrow in her beautiful eyes was unfeigned. “They’re all gone.”

“I’m truly sorry.”

“No more than I am.”

In the papers he’d given her had been a request for information. Her notes were not on a divorce settlement, but the names, places and approximate dates of meetings of prominent or important individuals with Herman Duplessis. This was what they needed to start digging deeper.

Oliver had also told her what he and Treville had discovered about Treville’s father. She had given him two more names of officers who might have also passed on information. He put her notes, and his original request which she’d returned surreptitiously, back into his jacket.

Once they’d eaten pudding, he tapped his breast pocket. “I’ll give this consideration. Perhaps we could meet next week to discuss?”

“If you wish,” she said, sounding bored. She drew out a silver case and handed him a card. “Call me on that number if you want to contact me.” He went to do the same but she put up her hand. “I know where I can ring you, Oliver.”

“Of course. Well, thank you for coming today. I hope we can get through all this with all possible speed.”

“Why, have you lined up the second Countess Delafere already?”

He regarded her without obvious emotion. “I thought you would want it over and done with.”

“I do. Good day, my lord.”

He stood politely as she left, then ordered coffee for himself, and a brandy. Strange how her words now sat directly over his heart, literally and metaphorically, and how he could feel them as sharply as any knife.

****************

After the emotional gauntlet that was lunch with Anne, Oliver was almost looking forward to dinner with Constance at the Larroques. Not that he disliked their company—far from it—but his appetite for the company of others than his closest friends was limited, and he’d reached his limit the day before. But it had to be said that Constance was fast becoming someone who did not exhaust his tiny fund of sociability, and at least he wasn’t taking Aramis.

His friend had sunk to a level of depression Oliver recognised all too well, one which even Porthos at his sunniest could not lift. The only person who made Aramis smile properly that week was d’Artagnan, with whom Aramis flirted shamelessly, and who flirted back just as hard. Considering there was a thirteen-year age difference between them, not to mention the illegality of any potential connection, Oliver was surprised he didn’t find it perturbing to contemplate. As far as he could see, Aramis was a bright spot in what had been a ghastly few years for the lad, and d’Artagnan offered comfort in a way Aramis could not derive from any of the others.

Aramis had moved into Oliver’s flat, as ordered, and it was a relief to have him where Oliver could keep an eye on the man. Porthos said as much when Aramis had taken d’Artagnan with him on a research errand—much to Treville’s disgust, certain Aramis would corrupt the lad’s approach to the task—and Oliver and Porthos had lunch together.

“Last thing he needed,” Porthos said. “Marsac, I mean.”

“Yes. I hope we can hand him the revenge he wants, but I’m far from hopeful.”

“He wants justice, not revenge. _I_ want revenge on behalf of all them Tommies who died because of this arsehole.”

“You’re not the only one. But we need to know how much more damage Duplessis can do.”

“Why? He’s richer than God, he’s been knighted, he has lunch with the king—this country’s a good place for him. Why would he want to do any damage though?”

“One may well ask.”

“You are.”

“Yes, I am.”

Constance was far more nervous about meeting Ninon Larroque and her father than she had been at the prospect of eating at Oliver’s club, no matter how much he reassured her that Ninon was a darling girl.

“She’s a solicitor, Athos. And an MP. And descended from French nobility.”

“So am I, on my mother’s side.”

“Yes, but she’s a _woman_. I’ve never met a woman who was all that before.”

“You’ll be all right. Wait and see.”

The Larroques’ butler opened the door to them, which made Constance clutch harder at Oliver’s arm. He patted her hand to comfort her. The butler took their coats and hats, while Constance stared at the beautiful interior.

Ninon, hair swept up in an elegant chignon, and dressed in a chic blue dress, came out to the hall to greet them. She kissed Oliver’s cheek. “It’s been far too long,” she said. Then she stepped back and held out her hand to Constance. “I’m Ninon. Welcome to our home.”

“Ninon, this is Constance Bonneville, who works with me. I have some questions of a delicate, political nature and Constance has already been useful with her insights, so I thought she could help.”

“Of course.” She took Constance’s arm. “Would you like to freshen up before dinner, my dear? Oliver, do go find Papa. He’s in his study.”

Oliver obeyed, hoping Ninon recognised Constance’s nerves were done to lack of experience, not lack of intelligence. He tapped on the door and was told to come in. “Oliver, lovely to see you again. Do sit down.” Larroque rose as Oliver sat on the leather sofa. “Whisky?”

“Please. Ninon’s taking my colleague to freshen up.”

“Of course.” He poured them two generous shots of Lagavulin with just a few drops of water in it, same as Oliver’s father had always drunk it.

“Cheers,” Oliver said, listing his glass. “You know Herman Duplessis, don’t you, sir?”

“A little. More know of than anything. Met him a couple of times. Likely to cut himself on that sharp tongue of his, though he’s silvery enough when he needs it.”

“Does he, or did he, have any political ambitions, that you know of?”

“Duplessis? None. I mean, he talked to politicians during the war—his company was essential to our defence. Churchill might have had a use for him, I don’t know. Atlee, I can’t see going to him. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve had reports of him possibly planning to skew the parliamentary makeup of the party in power.”

Larroque looked up, startled. “How could anyone do that?”

“Nobbling MPs, discrediting influential figures, forcing others to vote against their own or the party’s interests. I have nothing concrete, but the indications look as if he’s up to that.”

“Good heavens. Ninon’s the one to talk to, of course.”

“I plan to.”

“Plan to what?” Ninon slid gracefully into the room, followed by Constance. “Go sit with Oliver, Constance. Would you like a sherry? Gin and tonic?”

“Water would be fine, thank you.” She sat primly on the other end of the sofa, and accepted the glass from their hostess.

“Oliver’s just been talking to me about Herman Duplessis, Ninon. Says he’s fiddling around with the Labour Party.”

“Allegedly,” Oliver added with a wry look at his friends.

“Hmmm.” Ninon sat in an armchair. “This is the delicate political matter?”

“I wasn’t going to bring it up just yet.”

“Oh, do,” Ninon said. “Then I can pump you for gossip after dinner when you’ve had enough wine not to fight me off.”

Constance hid her smile, while Oliver lifted his glass to salute her.

The discussion too far longer than dinner could be held up for, so Ninon took it and a notebook to the table with her, a practice of hers since her youth, so her father knew better than to chide her. Constance sat next to her, and at times, all Oliver could see of them was their bent heads, blonde and brunette, working on the list. Ninon’s father was quite horrified at the thought that a knighted Englishman could have worked to betrayed British soldiers during the war.

“What possible motive could he have?”

Constance looked up. “Doesn’t he make armaments?”

Oliver nodded at her then turned to Edwin Larroque. “It could be just that simple.”

“Diabolical,” Larroque muttered.

“I’m not sure I can be shocked any more, sir.”

“I think I know what’s going on,” Ninon said, looking up at them all. “Constance is right—the path is being cleared. But he’s not just working on the Labour party, as you have Tories listed. If I wanted to bet on it, I would say look into Guy Rockford. He’s an up and coming MP on the other side who’s worried me for some time. He can sound horribly plausible, but at the same time, his ideas align all too well with authoritarianism, if not outright fascism. He’s been getting a lot of adoration on that side of the aisle the past few months, with the food shortages and so on. And he’s not the only one. The appeal of a strong leader with all the answers is surprisingly strong.”

“Then why does anyone need to smooth a path for him? And why target the Labour side?”

“Atlee got in with a twelve percent swing, but that won’t last. Governments can fall amazingly swiftly, especially in a situation as we have now with the hardships of February and March still very much with us. Imagine a government in disfavour felled by the sudden resignation of key ministers, and a snap election lost when safe seats suddenly switch hands. And a charismatic new comer who’s been talked up as a possible leader of the opposition for a while, comes to power when the former leader resigns or is taken out in some way.”

“People would notice,” Oliver protested.

“No, they wouldn’t,” Constance said. “Just as long as it never comes back to a single cause, or a single man, and people are angry enough. Look at the country now, so many problems, and nothing’s changed much from the war. Six miserable years we had, even though the war’s over we’re still rationing food and fuel and coal. The streets are filthy, bomb damage is everywhere, housing is so hard to find, no one has any money, and there’s nothing to spend it on. If things don’t improve soon, the government will get chucked out at the next election.”

“Don’t forget how distracted people are by the threat of the Russians too,” Ninon said, “And if someone controls enough of the news papers, one could tip the balance in their favour surprisingly fast.”

“Yes, but a fascist government in England?” Oliver said, aghast. “Germany was in much more of a mess before Hitler sprang up.”

“I know, but look at this other list,” Ninon said. “People Duplessis is meeting. What makes you think he’s the only one, or working alone. Looks to me like the ambition is to undo the victory and bring Europe back under authoritarian control.”

Oliver’s blood ran cold at the very idea. So many people dead fighting Hitler, Mussolini, the Japanese. Could one man, or even a group of men, manipulate Europe so very badly?

“Our firm isn’t big enough to handle this,” he said. “Not by a very long way.”

“No, you need MI6,” Ninon said flatly. “And the Home Office needs to look at this too. How well-sourced is your information?”

“Nearly well enough.”

“I could speak to the Home Secretary.” Ninon had some extremely highly placed friends.

“Thank you. I might need you to do that. But Treville and I have good contacts. Give us a little more time.”

“Take what you need,” she said. “But not too long.”

****************

Despite Ninon’s teasing, Oliver had made certain to keep his alcohol intake modest. The subject matter was too important, and his desire to behave well in front of Constance too great, for him to be careless.

“I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight,” Constance confessed in the taxi home. “I thought I’d heard everything, but no.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever plumb the depths of humanity’s evil, though after what the Germans did to the Jews, I thought we must have come close.”

She shivered, so he took her hand. “Don’t worry. We’re on to it now.”

He walked her up to her flat. “Thank you for coming tonight, despite the discussion. Ninon liked you.”

“She loves you. I’m surprised you never wanted to marry her.”

Oliver grinned. “Ninon doesn’t want to marry _anyone_. Especially not a man.”

Constance frowned in confusion, then realised what he meant. “Oh. Oh!”

“Quite. My virtue is safe from her. As is yours. She has a lover.”

“I would never think...goodness.”

There was a slightly awkward silence as they stared at each other. “So, goodnight?” she said, biting her lip.

“Yes.” But she still didn’t move. “Constance.”

“Athos.” She swayed towards him a little, and he imitated her unconsciously until he found himself a mere inch from her lips.

“Constance, may I kiss you?” he whispered.

“Please.”

So he did. Her lips were soft and sweet, and it had been far too long since he’d held a beautiful, pliant woman in his arms, or had her arms around him.

They broke apart, gasping a little. “Constance....”

“I should....”

The cramped, shared flat behind the door weighed heavy on both their minds.

“Perhaps we could go away together at some point,” Oliver said. “As I did last week with Aramis.”

“Oh. Oh! Was it...I mean, you and he aren’t—”

“No, we are _not_ ,” he said, grinning. He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I meant, I have a place we could go for walks and...talk.”

“That would be....” She stopped, uncertain. He didn’t want to push.

“There’s no hurry.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight, Athos.”

He wiped the lipstick from his mouth as he walked downstairs, smiling irrepressibly to himself.


	7. Chapter 7

The ambush had been planned with great care. The quarry’s movements leaked to them, and the layout of the hideout also known, the main difficulty was in disabling the guards and communication. Fortunately Aramis had brought a seasoned team, all with their own special reasons to take down their prey.

Aramis burst in through the glass doors of the terrace, pistol held in front of him. His men spread out behind him, also had guns at the ready. The two bodyguards lunged forward, so he grabbed the woman at the table, and dragged her up, holding her against him with his arm around her. Her struggles were ineffectual against his resolve.

“Nobody move or she dies!”

Duplessis signalled to his men to stand down. “Who are you and what do you want? Money? Jewels? Do you think they’re in this room?”

“I don’t want money, Duplessis. I want justice for seven dead soldiers.”

Herman Duplessis, a thin-faced man with an apparently permanent look of condescension, folded his napkin and put it on his plate. Aramis had caught him and Anne Delafere eating breakfast together. “Well, that’s a noble aim, but what has that to do with me?”

“You betrayed my team three years ago. You told the Germans about our mission and we were ambushed.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Duplessis said with a little laugh. “You’re delusional. Perhaps suffering from shellshock. I know some excellent doctors who could help you.”

Treville stepped forward. “He’s not delusional, Sir Herman. I’m Major John Treville. We have concrete proof that on several occasions you met with military officers, and shortly afterwards, passed information to the Nazis about missions spoken to you about in confidence.”

“Proof? What possible proof could you have?”

Athos stepped forward. “Diaries. Members’ registers. Testimony of the officers themselves. And affidavits by former French resistance fighters. More than that, we also know you are collecting blackmail material on a number of men, and talking to others like yourself attempting to promote the resurrection of fascism in Europe.”

“It’s Earl Delafere, isn’t it?” Duplessis said. “How can you stand by while this oaf manhandles your countess?”

“You mean, my lying, unfaithful ex-wife? Why should I care what happens to her?”

Aramis tightened his grip on Anne, making her squeak. “Confess, Duplessis, or I’ll kill her!”

“Oh, please. Go ahead,” he said with a lazy wave of his hand. “I’m tired of the Jewish whore.”

With a snarl, Aramis tossed Anne toward Treville, who caught her and kept a protective arm around her. Aramis strode forward and put the pistol at Duplessis’s forehead. “Then I’ll just kill you.”

Duplessis put his hands up. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement, my dear fellow. I could give you money. More money than you could ever need in this life or the next.”

Aramis pursed his lips. “How much?”

“Millions of pounds. Money the Treasury will never discover. Gold. It’s untraceable.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Porthos yelled. “He’s a fuckin’ traitor!”

“He’s right,” Aramis said. “What about my dead comrades?”

“Well, what about them? What do you need to soothe your anger?”

“A confession. Here, in front of witnesses.”

“Oh, if you insist. It’s all true. Churchill is a drunken buffoon, but Atlee is a soft fool. If Hitler had won, the real politicians could have had him removed and Europe would now be ruled by men who understand proper authority. Yes, I helped the Nazis. It was childishly easy. Your father, Treville, shouldn’t have been put in charge of a toyshop, let alone a battle or your precious missions. So easy to draw him out, get him to boast of what his boys were doing.”

“And you, Delafere. Did you know your brother was helping the Nazis too? Oh yes,” Duplessis said, evidently in response to the anger Athos displayed. “Petty little man. It was simple to promise him wealth and position and power, convince him that the English were determined to deprive their nobles of their hereditary rights, and that a Nationalist Socialist government would preserve and expand the role of the nobility in ruling this country. We would make people obey their king again, swear oaths to a crown with real power, guided by a strong president. He worked for us for two years, and you never suspected a thing, did you? Buried him with full honours, did you?”

“No, actually. He was killed as a traitor and his body lies God knows where” Athos said in his coldest tone.

“Oh, well, he served his purpose well enough. And as for the rest of it? There are plenty of men ready to work for the greater good. Now Hitler has cleansed so much of Europe of the undesirables, we have only to complete his work, and put people into power who can rule well and with an iron fist. Defend us against the Americans, and the Russians.”

“The Americans defended us,” Aramis said, nudging the gun harder against the man’s skin.

“Eventually. For their own ends. Next time, the Japanese will sit it out, and the Americans will fold their hands and say, ‘Sorry, guys, it’s none of our business.’ We can’t rely on them.”

The bodyguards shifted uneasily. “So, now you have your precious confession.” Duplessis said. “Now let me write a cheque, and we can be done with this foolishness.”

Treville stepped up beside Aramis. “Not so fast, Sir Herman. You have to answer for your crimes, and now we have your confession, you will be arrested.

Duplessis laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Treville. My confession, witnessed by whom? My loyal men, and a group of criminals who burst into the room, threatened my mistress, and put a gun to my head? You have nothing.”

One of Aramis’s men stepped forward, and removed his cap, shaking out a long fall of blonde hair. “How about a councillor as a witness, Sir Herman?” Ninon said.

Another stepped forward. “Or a Labour MP?” McKinnon had been especially eager to help.

“A nobody and a homosexual,” Sir Herman sneered. “Worthless.”

“What about me?” another woman said, rolling down her coat collar. “Anna Spain, MI6. You’re under arrest, Sir Herman, and will be charged with treason.”

At that point, uniformed police poured into the room, and Duplessis and his guards were handcuffed and bustled out. Aramis holstered his gun and turned to his friends. “We did it. We really did it.”

Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. “We bloody did, mate. We really bloody did.”

Treville still had his arm around Anne, who had a hand at her throat. “Did I hurt you? Aramis asked.

“Not really. ‘Jewish whore’? I’d rather be that than a traitor,” she said, scowling at the back of her departing unloved lover.

“You are not a whore in the slightest,” Athos said, coming over to her and kissing her cheek. “Well done, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Anna Spain shed her coat and hat, revealing a smart suit and golden hair. “With everything you have already given us, and what he’s revealed today, I think Herman Duplessis has an appointment with the hangman. Thank you, all of you. Especially you, Mr Herblay.” She extended a dainty hand, and Aramis, high on success and feeling a little naughty, bent and kissed it. She smiled.

“It was all of us,” Aramis said. “And none more than Lady Delafere. We couldn’t have done this at all without her.”

Anna held her hand out to Anne. “Indeed. Your country owes you its thanks.”

“Again, you mean,” Anne said, with perfect justification. She shook Anna’s hand, then stepped away from Treville’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack before Herman decides his gifts to me are on a rubber band.”

“I’ll come with you,” Treville said. “There will be other men in the house.”

Porthos put up his hand. “I’ll come with you too, boss.” Treville nodded, and the three of them left the room.

“Do you need us any further, Miss Spain?” Athos asked.

“No, thank you, my lord. We’ll handle it from now on.”

“Then you and I should return to the office,” Athos said to Aramis. “Our colleagues will be anxious for news.”

“And a drink. Can we call it a holiday and repair to the nearest pub?”

“Too early,” Athos said. “How about our flat? No licensing laws there to worry about there.”

“Office first,” Aramis said. “Miss Spain, would you let the major know that we’ll meet him there? Er, you’d be welcome too,” he added after a glance at Athos, who nodded.

She smiled sweetly. “Thank you, but no. I’m still on duty. Do enjoy yourselves, though.”

****************

D’Artagnan jumped at Aramis as he walked into the office, and hugged him. “Did it work? Did you get him?”

“ _Oui, petit, nous avons gagné,_ ” he said against the lad’s ear. He glanced over to see Constance wrapping her arms around Athos. “ _Nous avons tous gagné._ ”

“ _Bon_ ,” d’Artagnan said, letting him go, and grinning. “ _Vive la garrison!_ ”

“Yes, quite so,” Athos said, still smiling at Constance. Luke and Edward came over to pat their shoulders and congratulate them.

“Where’s the boss?” Constance asked, returning to her desk, though not sitting down.

“Helping Lady Delafere extract her belongings from Herman’s Duplessis’s maw. They’ll be along soon,” Athos said. “We’re calling it a half-holiday so everyone, wrap up what you have to do, and we’ll all head to my flat for drinks and food. Edward, Luke, care to do a food run?”

Aramis snatched the ten-bob note out of Athos’s fingers. “Let me take d’Artagnan. After all, I had nothing else to do today except the destruction of all evil, and d’Artagnan is only in training.”

Athos smirked. “Yes, but what for? Very well. Treville won’t be long, I suspect.”

“Neither will we. Pies all round? Good.”

“Pies,” d’Artagnan muttered when they were on the street. “English food is disgusting.”

“There are people starving in this country because of this last winter, Charles. [Children without enough to eat, fathers out of work](https://wattsupwiththat.com/2013/02/25/the-winter-of-1947/). If you don’t want the food, no one’s forcing you to eat.”

“ _Je m’excuse._ ”

Aramis patted his shoulder. “You’re forgiven. The food is bad, but there are reasons. At least Athos drinks French wine.”

“As he should.”

Aramis grinned. “You’re a little chauvinist, aren’t you?”

“I am proud to be French, of course.”

“Of course. And I am proud to be both French and English.”

“ _D’accord._ ”

They bought the pies at a local pie and mash shop, and brought them back to the office in a box so they could be warmed up at the flat. Porthos was already back. “Boss said he might drop by later,” he said. “He’s taken Anne to his place. She’s going to stay there for a bit until she sorts out where she’s going to live.”

Aramis looked at Athos, who seemed unbothered by that news. “Then we have no reason not to head off, do we?”

“None at all,” Athos said. “Everyone done? Then to the Tube station at once.”

He ended up beside Athos as they walked. “Treville and Anne, then,” Aramis murmured.

“I suppose so. I still need to talk to her, but she’s moved on, as I thought.”

Porthos was ahead of them, and had Constance’s arm. The three lads strode in front, d’Artagnan carrying the precious pies. “Have you?”

“I will.”

“Constance is a very fine woman.”

Athos turned to him. “Don’t push, _mon vieux._ ”

“I won’t. I will be quiet and wish you all the luck in the world.”

“Thank you. And you too, though for the love of God, be discreet with him.”

“Charles? He’s a boy.”

“Of course.”

“He’s thirteen years younger than me.”

“I know.”

“Athos.”

His friend smiled. “What?”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Yes, I’ve been told that. We better hurry up or they’ll be on the train before we can catch it.”

****************

Anne looked around the little bedroom Treville had put her bags into. “Too small?” he asked.

“No, it’s lovely. Thank you.” She sat on the bed and looked up at him. “Now I’ll have to find some other rich man to keep me.”

“If only rich men will do, I suppose you will.”

Since she had been at breakfast when they’d staged their raid, she was wearing much less makeup than at other times he’d seen her recently. It gave her a slightly wan, fragile appearance. She was still astonishingly beautiful, of course. “I need to survive, John.”

“Of course. Though I understand Athos is preparing to be very generous towards you.”

“So he said. I didn’t marry him for that, you realise. He swept me off my feet, and I would rather have him than all the diamonds in the world.”

“Even now?”

She looked down and picked imaginary fluff from her skirt. “Perhaps. I still love him, painfully so. But I don’t think we would work any longer. The magic has gone away.”

“So long as you don’t hate each other, then at least you can be friends.”

“Yes. I’d like that. We were always such good friends. I don’t know what I would have done without him after Suzanne died.”

Treville bit his lip. “Anne...you will always have a place here, if you want it. No strings.”

She stared up with her big green eyes, apparently genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Because...that’s what I want—you to know you will always have a place to be safe. If that’s all I can do for you, then that’s something, at least.”

“You were rather unkind when you sent me away, John. ‘Malicious’ and ‘conniving’, I seem to recall were some of the words you used.”

Treville grasped his hands behind him, inwardly squirming with embarrassment. “I was disgusted with myself, not you.”

“For having an affair with me. Am I just another Jewish whore to you too?”

“No! God, Anne.” He pulled her up into his arms and held her close. “Never. I hated myself because I exploited your grief and unhappiness. I should have been stronger, supported you without....”

“But I wanted you to,” she said, cocking her head in puzzlement.

“Yes, but you weren’t in your right mind...damn it, your husband had just spurned you, you had lost your family, you were a mess. I was a bastard towards you.”

She put her finger on his lips. “No. Don’t deny me my right to choose. I _was_ unhappy. I _wasn’t_ insane. And I did want you. I...still want you.”

He stared into her eyes. How could he have ever thought them cold? He pressed his lips to hers, and she opened them, welcoming him in. He crushed her tight, never wanting her out of his arms again. “I’m so sorry. So sorry,” he whispered against her cheek.

“Don’t be sorry. Be mine.”

He bore her carefully down to the bed, and lay over her to stroke her hair. “Stay. Stay forever.”

“I don’t believe in forever. I only believe in until it stops working.” She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck. “It only stops working when we don’t want it to work.”

“Then it will never stop.”

He kissed her again. Nothing more needed to be said.

****************

The celebrations wound down around three. Oliver had kept Luke and Edward from becoming more than a little tiddly—neither of them were wine drinkers, and an attempt to match d’Artagnan’s consumption looked certain to end in tears, so Porthos had gone out for a couple of bottles of beer, which sat better on their young constitutions. Oliver packed them off home after feeding everyone tea and biscuits, once he was satisfied their mothers wouldn’t be horrified at the state of them.

After their departure, Treville had telephoned and made his excuses. “Anne needs me,” he said, without explanation.

“I’m glad you’re there with her, John. Please tell her...tell her I’m glad.”

“I will. See you tomorrow. Oh, what’s d’Artagnan doing?”

“I’ll keep him here, out of your way. Bring a clean shirt for him with you tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tell Aramis he did extremely well.”

“We all did. It was profoundly satisfying.”

“It was. Goodnight, Athos.”

When he rang off, Oliver turned to d’Artagnan, who was lying on the floor next to Aramis. Porthos sat cross-legged near their feet. “Boss wants you out of the way tonight. Stay here.”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Woof.”

Aramis laughed. “You deserve that.”

Athos looked at him from under his brows. “You be quiet, or I’ll put him in the spare room.”

Constance blushed and Porthos shook his head. “Athos, you can’t say that kind of thing out loud.”

“As if you two have never shared a bed.”

“Not like—”

Oliver did his best to look innocent and affronted. “Like what, hmmm?”

“Never mind.”

“Quite. I suppose you want to be getting away to Alice’s now?”

His big friend’s mouth turned down. “Uh...me and her broke up.”

Aramis exclaimed. “What? How? Porthos, you two were engaged. You were in love.”

“I know. We had a fight. We were talking about if there was another war, and I said I’d join up again. Cos I would, you know I would. We all would.” Oliver nodded, as did Aramis. “And she said, she wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t want to be married to a soldier.”

Oliver sucked in a breath. “Oh dear.”

“And I said...well, it don’t matter what I said. She wasn’t changing her mind, and neither was I. So that was that. Back to being single for me.”

“I’m so sorry, _mon ami_ ,” Aramis said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “She was wrong.”

“Nah. It’s what she wants, ain’t it? She has her opinion, and I have mine. Shame, though.”

“I think more wine is called for,” Oliver said, reaching for the bottle. “Another sherry, Constance? Or lemonade?”

“I’m all right, thank you. Porthos, it’s her loss. You’d make a wonderful husband for any woman.”

Porthos smiled. “Thanks, darlin’. Maybe you and me should get hitched instead, eh?”

“I’m up for it if you are.” She turned and saw Oliver’s frozen expression. “It’s a joke, Athos.”

“Yes. Of course. But, if you and he. I mean, you would be wonderful together.”

Porthos looked at Aramis, then the two of them let out belly laughs. “If you could see your face, Athos,” Aramis said, holding his stomach. “Constance, there are subjects on which it is unwise to tease his lordship, because he has no sense of humour about them.”

“I’ll remember that in future,” she said gravely, but spoiled it by giggling. “Oh dear. Perhaps I should go home too. I’m getting silly.”

Aramis climbed to his feet, dragging d’Artagnan up as well. “Come on, you two. I want a walk before supper.”

“But I’m comfortable,” d’Artagnan whined.

“You’re getting fat,” Aramis said, lying outrageously. “You too, Porthos.”

Porthos looked up at Aramis, then over at Oliver and Constance. “Yeah, I could do with some exercise. See you at the office tomorrow, Athos, Constance.”

“Yes, see you,” Oliver said, Constance giving him a little wave. Porthos and Aramis pushed a still complaining d’Artagnan out the door and suddenly, it was all quiet again in the flat.

Constance stood. “Right. I suppose that’s my cue to leave...oof.” Oliver had risen from the couch and caught her around the waist to pull her onto his knee. “What’s all this, my lord?” she said, dimples showing in her amusement.

“Constance, that was _not_ your cue to leave. My friends were giving us a little privacy.”

“Oh. And why would we need privacy, Athos?”

He put his hand behind her head and gently bent her towards him so he could kiss her. Her arms slipped around his shoulders and it was so right, so comfortable to have her there on his lap, that he could happily sit like this forever.

“Athos.”

“Yes, my darling?”

“What are you going to do about your wife?”

He leaned his forehead against hers and sighed. He shifted and regrettably, she moved off his lap to sit on the sofa instead. “We’ll divorce, I suppose. I still haven’t talked to her properly about it, but I don’t have any sense she wants to come back to me.”

She took his hand. “If she did? What will you do then?”

“I don’t know.”

She gave him a wry look. She let go his hand and stood, smoothing down her skirts. “Then I think we should stop...whatever this is...until you do know.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to lead you on.”

She bent and kissed his forehead. “I know you’re not. But you have unfinished business. And I can wait, if it’s what you want.”

“I do want. Very much.” He reached for her hand and she allowed it. “Will you continue to have dinner with me?”

“Yes.”

“And perhaps even come up to my estate for a weekend away? There are four bedrooms in the dower house.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a perfect gentleman, and yes, I’d love that.”

“Then I’ll endeavour to sort things out with Anne. I won’t keep you dangling.”

“Better not. There’s a rather good-looking kind, brave man who’s already made me an offer.”

“You might be better off—”

She bent and shut him up with a finger on his lips. “Don’t you dare say that.” She kissed him properly. “I should go home though.”

“Let me arrange a taxi?”

“It’s a single bus ride, Athos. I’m fine.”

“Have dinner with me tomorrow then?”

“Of course.” She stroked his face. “I’ll look forward to it.”

She wouldn’t let him walk her out, so he remained in the flat, cleaning up the glasses and bottles. He couldn’t leave this mess for his housekeeper. He ran the hot water, and shaved a little soap into the sink. His arms were wet nearly to the elbows when someone knocked at his front door.

“Bugger.” He grabbed a tea towel and walked over to the door. He opened it and found Constance there again, looking nervous and clutching her handbag with both hands.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to wait for you.”

He held out his arms and she came into them. He held her tight, kicked the door shut with his food, and kissed her. “Then don’t. Be mine, darling Constance.”

“Always, my lord.”

He swung her up into his arms, and carried her to his room.

Finally, he knew what he wanted to do.

**Author's Note:**

> SOE — [Special Operations Executive](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Operations_Executive)
> 
> SIS — [Secret Intelligence Services](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Secret_Intelligence_Service). In other words, MI6. After the war, some SOE agents made the move there. Anne did not.
> 
> “the excesses of the law” — the strict and cruel British law against homosexuality in effect at this time—the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885—was described as “The Blackmailer’s Charter”, with good reason.
> 
> “He gave a pub a wistful look as he walked past it. Too early....” — English licensing laws meant pubs could only open between 12 noon and 14:40, and between 18:30 and 21:30.
> 
> “A woman as PM, though. The country would never stand for it.” — of course, the UK didn’t get its first one until 1979.
> 
> “it’s useful for reservations and so on”— something Jamie Lee Curtis (aka Lady Haden-Guest) has observed.
> 
> Bletchley — [Bletchley Park](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bletchley_Park), home of the codebreakers
> 
> [Official Secrets Act](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Official_Secrets_Act#United_Kingdom) — “People working with [sensitive information](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Information_sensitivity) are commonly required to sign a statement to the effect that they agree to abide by the restrictions of the Official Secrets Act. This is popularly referred to as "signing the Official Secrets Act". Signing this has no effect on which actions are legal, as the act is a [law](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law), not a [contract](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contract), and individuals are bound by it whether or not they have signed it. Signing it is intended more as a reminder to the person that they are under such obligations. To this end, it is common to sign this statement both before and after a period of employment that involves access to secrets (e.g. [MI5](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MI5)/[MI6](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MI6)).”
> 
> “ _Salaud_. _Fils de pute._ _”_ — “Bastard. Son of a whore [bitch].”
> 
> “ _Ces Anglais, ils sont tous fous_ _”_ — “These English, they’re all mad.”
> 
> “ _Monsieur Treville me dit que vous êtes fran_ _çais_ _,_ ” — “Mr Treville tells me you are French”
> 
> “ _Je suis_ _à moitié français. Ravi de vous rencontrer, d'Artagnan._ ” —“I’m half French. Pleased to meet you, d’Artagnan.”
> 
> " _Je n'ai que le pistolet que tous les hommes portent_.” — “I only have the pistol all men carry.” I couldn’t find out if ‘pistol’ was used as a metaphor for ‘penis’ in French, but I figured it was such a common comparison, I’d assume it was so
> 
> “ _So ein rückständiges Land_ ” _—_ “Such a backward country”
> 
> “ _Oui, petit, nous avons gagné,_ ” — “yes, little one, we have won”
> 
> “ _Nous avons tous gagné._ ” — “we have all won”
> 
>  
> 
> By pure chance, I decided to set this story in 1947. I didn’t realise until the story was three-quarters of the way written, that the winter of 1946-47 had been [one of the coldest on record](http://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/+/http:/www.metoffice.gov.uk/education/secondary/students/winter.html), causing enormous misery, [coal, fuel, electricity and food shortages](http://www.markvoganweather.com/2015/12/12/a-look-back-winter-of-1946-47/), and throwing hundreds of thousands of people out of work because the factories could not operate. This was followed by flooding in March as the immense snowfall rapidly thawed. The impact of the winter would lead, later in the year, to bread and potato rationing, in addition to the wartime rationing which was still in place, severe housing shortages, and a lack of many of the food items that many people considered basic necessities. It very nearly brought Britain to its knees.
> 
> As predicted in this story, it also sent the popularity of the Labour government plummeting, and eventually resulted in a change to the Tories in 1951 (though not as a result of any meddling by fascist businessmen, at least that I know of.) So it was fortuitous I picked that year, but as I was blithering on about April of that year being snowy and cold, when it had been rather warmer and sunnier than normal, I had to do some rewriting (as well as checking things like what food and petrol was available.)


End file.
